


You Ain't Alone

by EnduringChill, Something_From_Nothing (EnduringChill)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Love Confessions, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Post-His Last Vow, WIP, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-03-11 15:46:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 81
Words: 142,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3331073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringChill/pseuds/EnduringChill, https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringChill/pseuds/Something_From_Nothing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post His Last Vow ~ In this universe, Moriarty does not save Sherlock from his death mission. The jet carries him to Eastern Europe to battle the Russians. Sherlock has every intention of beating the odds and returning to John. A blast and a fire leave Sherlock with severe burns across his body and face. Mycroft takes matter into his own hands to oversee Sherlock's rehabilitation and recovery. A terrible decision is made that will alter both Sherlock and John forever. Their separate paths to healing bring them closer together than they realise.</p><p>A story that proves that no matter what forces pull them apart, John and Sherlock always find a way back to one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Named for this song from the Alabama Shakes  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0HxNtWEIKhQ
> 
> You aint alone, so why you lonely?  
> there you go on the dark end of the street  
> are you scared to tell somebody how you feel about  
> somebody? are you scared what somebody's gon think?  
> or...  
> are you scared to wear your heart out on your sleeve?  
> are you scared me?
> 
> Cause i'm scared the bomb gonna take me away...  
> oh, but i really don't know what i got to say...  
> alright!
> 
> 1-2-3, are you too scared to dance for me?  
> bite the bullet or tug my sleeve?  
> or are you scared out on your own two feet?
> 
> We really aint that different, you and me.  
> cause I'm scared the storm gonna take me away..
> 
> But i really don't know what i got to say...  
> hold on....hold on...
> 
> Cry, if you gonna cry  
> come on, cry wit me.
> 
> You ain't alone,  
> just let me be your ticket home....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give a shout out to [ Megabat for her wonderful artwork](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Megabat)

When John sees the black car across the street from the hospital, he knows something is wrong. Ice fills his veins; his feet cement to the sidewalk. He doesn't want to go in the Town Car, he knows it is bad news. He pulls his mobile from his pocket.

I'll be late - J

With his head down, John crosses the street. The door opens easily, and he slips in. The dark haired assistant keeps her eyes on her phone. She could be playing Candy Crush or Tomb Raider for all John knows. 

"What's happened, Anthea?" he asks.

"He'll explain everything," she says without a glance in his direction.

The cars pull away and through the evening London traffic. John wonders where they will meet. Diogenes Club? Office? Abandoned car park?  
John's phone buzzes. Beside him, Anthea doesn't flinch. He swipes his finger across the screen.

Everything alright? MW

It's Sherlock. I think something has happened -J

John feels a tight ball curl up in his chest. It is three months into Sherlock's six month mission. As he expected, there has been no communication from Sherlock. He gets updates from Mycroft, usually a heavily encrypted phone conversation about football that means Sherlock is safe. Once he stops by the local cafe where John takes his lunch to convey that all is well.

John swipes his phone again. It's been a month since he's heard from Mycroft. John has been so busy getting ready for baby girl Watson that he hasn't noticed Mycroft's absence.

However, not a day goes by when he doesn't think of Sherlock. He relives those final moments on the tarmac and wishes he had done things differently. Once the door to the jet closes, John realises it's too late. He was sure he felt that Sherlock was holding something back, it was just sitting in his mouth - waiting to spring. But it never does. He glances over John's shoulder to Mary, swollen with child. He smiles and swallows his words, and John does the same. They shake hands, and John watches a large piece of himself board an airplane. John walks back to Mary, who sends him a tight smile. She pulls him into the car so they can go home. John feels the distance between him and Sherlock grow and expand. He leans his head back against the seat and knows without a doubt that despite his current martial status and impending fatherhood, he should have told Sherlock that he was in love with him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John follows Anthea through the lobby of a grand hotel. She extracts a key card to wave in front of a pad. The lift opens and she walks in, not glancing back to see if John follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited to add artwork from http://archiveofourown.org/users/Megabat/pseuds/Megabat

John follows Anthea through the lobby of a grand hotel. She extracts a key card to wave in front of a pad. The lift opens and she walks in, not glancing back to see if John follows.

"This is new," John remarks.

"Hmm." Anthea is not a woman of many words.

A hotel? He stares at his complexion in the mirrored doors. He should have shaved this morning. He knows he looks tired and rough.

Of course the lift stops at the penthouse. The doors open to a large foyer with a door at either end. Anthea turns left. She swipes her keycard and the door clicks. John knows better than to ask her why this hotel. Nothing surprises John when it comes to Holmes brothers. 

The penthouse is bigger than Baker Street and his flat in the suburbs. John cranes his neck to see a glittering chandelier over his head.

"This way, please," Anthea says, leading him down another hall.

Double doors open up to a study. Mycroft stands behind a large cherry desk with two best piles of files and his beloved laptop. He looks up from a letter and gestures to a dark brown chair opposite him.

"Doctor Watson, how are you?" he asks.

John raises his eyebrows. "Doctor, that's very formal."

"You did just come from work," he smirks. 

"Why a hotel?" John glances around.

"My home is undergoing some renovation. How is Mary?"

"Two days overdue and miserable." John sits down in the seat Mycroft offers.

"Yes, baby girl Watson." Mycroft gazes out the window.

"I know I'm not here to report of the birth of my daughter. What's happened to Sherlock?" He perches at the edge of the chair.

"As you know, there's been some unrest in Russia and surrounding territories. The situation called for someone with specific skills." Mycroft sits behind his desk. "What I'm sure Sherlock did not tell you is that his mission was an impossible one. There was a 15% survival rate."

John's blood runs cold. "What?"

"After the Magnussen incident, Sherlock did not have many choices. He had to choose between a life sentence in a prison with many enemies - certain death or this mission - probable death." Mycroft folds his hands before him.

John goes from cold to boiling instantly. "You gave him that choice?"

"It was not my offer. There are things beyond my control."

"You could have kept him in solitary to keep him safe. He could have had visitors," John clenches his fists.

"Do you honestly think that he would have been content to rot behind bars to fester until you had the time to visit him?" Mycroft snarls.

The statement is true. Sherlock could not survive being idle. 

"Where is he?" John's voice breaks.

Mycroft opens the top drawer of the desk to extract a while envelope. 'John' is scrawled in Sherlock's handwriting. 

"This is for you." Mycroft slides it towards John.

John shakes his head. "No. No, you will not do this again."

"Read it when you are ready. There was a blast and a fire. Dental records and DNA were used for identification." Mycroft's voice breaks.

John sees tears rim Mycroft usually watery eyes. 

"No, I can't do this." he whispers.

"There will be no service. My parents are having a very difficult time of this. Perhaps in a few months, we will plan a memorial." 

"He knew, when we said goodbye. He knew he wasn't returning." John feels the familiar sting of betrayal.

"It destroyed him up to leave you. You must know that." Mycroft whispers with more emotion he's ever shown. "You were his world."

John rubs his forehead. "He should have told me. If I went, maybe..." 

"He would have never allowed you to go. You have a child to raise. She needs one sane parent." Mycroft sniffs.

"Remember, she's my wife." John warns.

"Is she? Or is she the mother of your child?" Mycroft asks.

The truth slaps John. It is true that Mary ceased being a wife after she shot Sherlock. It doesn't matter that she never delivered a fatal shot. Sherlock nearly died and John has not truly forgiven.

"How do I know this is not another Holmes trick of the eye?" John asks.

Mycroft settles back in his chair. "I can show you the final report when I receive it."

John smirks unpleasantly. "I've seen you do this before. Irene. St. Bart's."

"My instructions were to give you this letter upon confirmation of his death. I am only doing my brother's final wishes." Mycroft stands. "I will leave you to read it in peace. I know you will not be able to contain your curiosity, but will not want to read it at home."

Mycroft leaves the library and closes the door behind him. John is not sure how long he stares at the envelope before he open it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's letter to John

Dearest John,

If this letter has found your hands, I have died. I can only hope that Mycroft was kind in his delivery of my last words to you.

First, I apologise for leaving you again. I am certain that Mycroft has filled you in on my current mission and my probability of survival. I had hoped to beat the odds and return to London - and to you.

I live (and die) with a mountain of regret about the things I never said before I left. I suppose to say them now after my death does not help. Yet I feel you should know that I was torn apart to leave you. Your smile is the last thing I'll see before I leave this earth. I have called myself a high functioning sociopath. I know I was incorrect in this assessment. I was that person until January 29. The moment you walked into my life, I was forever changed. The way I saw the world and myself would never be the same. You changed me or at the very least made me want to change. You, John Watson, are more than a conductor of light, you are the light. It was you that kept me going in the darkest days of the Moriarty mission. It was you that kept me from slipping back into a drug habit that could have easily consumed me. I only wish I had the courage to be this honest while looking you in the eye. If I had a second chance, I would have answered differently that first night at Angelo's. I was unprepared and not ready for you.

You are most likely very cross that I chose the mission over imprisonment. While the odds were against me, I hoped to beat them so that I could return to you a free man. I regret never knowing your daughter. I think I would have enjoyed being Uncle Sherlock.

Those last moments on the tarmac, I had more to say. You felt it, but I couldn't bring myself to say it. I can say, in the safety of knowing that you'll never reject me, that I love you with my entire being. I love you in a way that will never be realised, and may never be requited. You maybe calling me an arse for telling you now and like this - but you are the first and most definitely the last. I am glad that I knew you, because you saved me in ways I cannot quantify.

Yours,  
Sherlock


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes home to tell Mary.

It takes John hours to compose himself. He hates that Mycroft is the one to pat him awkwardly on the back as he sobs. He still doesn't believe it and searches for evidence that this is another Holmes game. He wonders why Mycroft chose a hotel. In the end, John knows that even if Sherlock is not dead, Mycroft has given him this letter as closure.

Mary has sent five text messages with an escalating concern. 

Coming home - J

John feels wrung out when he pushes through the door to his house with Mary. Her burnt curry hovers like a cloud in the kitchen.

"What happened to you?" she asks.

"Mycroft beckoned." He swallows and the tears fall again. "Sherlock is....dead."

Mary frowns. "Is that what Mycroft told you?"

"Yes, he gave me..." John thinks about the letter. Best to not tell his wife. "He gave me the awful news."

Mary raises an eyebrow. "And you believe him?"

"I know that after the last time..." John wrings his hands together. "He's going to give me the report when he gets it."

"I think you need more than that." Mary folds her hands on her large belly.

"He gave me these." He pulls out some grainy photos. He shows Mary a burned out brick building. "This is where he was, in the Ukraine."

"Looks like it sustained some damage," Mary concedes.

"This is after." There's nothing but rubble and dust. "He was there when this happened."

"How does Mycroft know that?" Mary asks.

"He had a GPS chip placed in Sherlock, to track his whereabouts. The signal is dead. Hoe showed me. He's gone."

Mary sighs and shakes her head. "Don't do this, John. You can't mourn like the last time. You've a family now. And I'm sorry, but I wouldn't believe the Holmes if they told me the sky was blue."

"Coming from you, that's just rich," he spits. 

It's a low blow. Mary looks as if she's been slapped. He's not sure he truly believes that his remark has wounded her. Her past always sits between them - at dinner, in bed. The baby is the suspension bridge between them. 

"I'm sorry," he mumbles.

She stands. "You're not really. However, you're hurting. Whether or not Sherlock is dead remains to be seen. It's just another time he's hurt you."

John decides it's not worth the fight. "You go up. I need a few minutes.," John says.

Mary wraps her arms around him. "I'm sorry. I'm just protective of you. I remember how you were when we met. You were a shell and I put you back together only for you to be torn apart again. If you're going to truly mourn him, I want you to be able to recover."

"I think it's real this time. The Government sent him to his death. He knew that." 

Mary nods. "He did." She tilts John's face up. "And he wanted me to take care of you."

Of course Mary knew about the mission. Why do they always feel the need to protect him? Do they realise that he's been to war? He has seen enough death and pain to manage his own.

It's possible that Mary is right and Sherlock is having a laugh in Paris or Berlin. He touched the letter in his pocket. Those words were from a man who never expects to answer to them. Sherlock is not worried how John will react to the declaration of love, because he's dead. John will not have to decide to stay with Mary and the sexuality he's always known or to forge something new and frightening with a man he cannot control. 

John paces the sitting room as quietly as he can. Mycroft in a hotel is bizarre. However, it's possible that Mummy and Father Holmes are taking refuge at his home. He recalls Mycroft's pale face and the way his voice caught. The elder Holmes is brilliant, powerful, and rich. He's also a terrible actor. 

Mary drops a kiss in the top of his head and goes to bed. When John is certain she's tucked away, he reads the letter over and over. 

Dearest John,  
I love you with my entire being.  
Yours,  
Sherlock

John falls into a restless sleep on the sofa. He dreams of Sherlock all night, like all the nights before.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John, I think it's time." Mary shakes him.

"John, I think it's time." Mary shakes him.

John blinks wearily at the clock beside the bed. 4:16am.

"Are you sure it's not Braxton?" He rubs his eyes.

"I've been having contractions for most the night. They're getting stronger and closer." She hisses through the pain.

John fumbles with his jeans and a jumper. Mary slips into yoga pants and sweatshirt. The suitcase has been by the door for three weeks. Baby girl Watson has taken her time arriving. Each day she waits over her intended birthday, Mary grows more ornery. 

John gathers the last minute items like Mary's pillow, and loads everyone into the car. The baby seat has been installed for weeks. John swallows roughly. The seat Sherlock researched to the point of grilling the manufacturers before purchasing for John and Mary. 

It has been a tough week since Mycroft gave John the letter. He carries it folded in his wallet and reads it at least three times a day. He tries not to think about what could have been if they both had just had more courage.

Mary's labour slows when they are settled into a room. She dozes while John watches the morning programs in an uncomfortable chair. He nearly reaches for his photo call Sherlock. 

While John was still at Baker Street, he and Sherlock discussed the birth plan.

"If it's appropriate, I'd like you to call me when she goes into labour. I want to be there to meet the baby," Sherlock had said.

Even now, those words pull at John's heart. He would pull out the letter now, but Mary's slumber is light. She can never see the letter.

By ten in the morning, the contractions start in earnest. By noon, Mary's legs are in the air and she is grunting. By 1:29 in the afternoon, a little girl is crying on Mary's chest. John is crying too. It doesn't take much these days to get him going. Tears of happiness, sadness and longing cover his new daughter's tiny head. 

"She's beautiful, like her mother." John kisses Mary's damp forehead.

Mary nods and closes her eyes in exhaustion. 

"I know we had a few names that we liked but...what about Willa?" John curls his daughter to his chest. 

"Willa?" Mary asks. She chuckles lightly. "After him?"

John looks out the window to hide his blush. "If it wasn't for him, we'd not be here."

"If it wasn't for him, I'd still be Mary Morstan to you," she whispers.

John turns to stare her down. "If it wasn't for him, you'd be on the run."

"Magnussen would have still been dead. The bullet just came from a different gun. I was being discreet until he got in the way," she says pointedly.

"He did everything for you. He killed Magnussen to keep you safe," John says.

Mary closes her eyes. "He did it for you. Let's not fool ourselves, John. There isn't a move he made without you in the back of his mind."

How did Mary see it and not him? He cuddles the sleeping baby closer. 

"Fine. Willa it is. If it helps bring you closure." She emphasises the last word.

On 1:29pm, Willa Martha Watson enters the world.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything hurts and burns. Sherlock opens his eyes to find that only his left opens. Most of the right side of his body is covered in bandages. His ribs are wrapped tightly in a bright white gauze.

Two months and two weeks after the Tarmac.

Everything hurts and burns. Sherlock opens his eyes to find that only his left opens. Most of the right side of his body is covered in bandages. His ribs are wrapped tightly in a bright white gauze. As usual, there is the beeping of machines around him. Once again, he has escaped death. This makes four times. He only has five more lives to go.

He recalls the blast and the fire. He can still feel his skin burning. He is not certain of the damage. As much as he hates them, he pushes a button to summon a medical professional.

Thirty seconds later, Mycroft appears in his room. He's a bit disheveled with rolled up shirtsleeves and no tie. Mycroft has seen wars, assignations, and the worst the world has to offer. This is the roughest Sherlock has seen his older brother.

Sherlock tries to speak but his throat burns. Mycroft moves to him with a cup of water. He holds the straw to Sherlock's lips.

"Carefully. Your throat is damaged from smoke inhalation." Mycroft's voice is soft.

"What?" Sherlock winces. 

"Do you remember the blast and the fire?" Mycroft asks.

Sherlock nods. He doesn't recall every detail. There was a loud thunderous roar and the building, such as it was, shook and crumbled. Then there was heat and pain. 

"Refugees pulled you from the rubble. They cared for you until we could extract you." Mycroft pulls up a chair.

"Where?" It is too hard to speak full sentences.

"Switzerland for now. We return home in a few days." Mycroft sees Sherlock's eyes light up. "I'm preparing my London house for your rehabilitation."

"Sherlock frowns. "That bad?"

"Miraculously, just a few broken ribs. No other bones. However, the exterior suffered burns." Mycroft rubs his hands together reflectively.

Sherlock can feel his skin burning still. "How bad?"

With a heavy sigh, Mycroft moves to the front of the hospital bed. "I probably shouldn't show you but you'll find a way to see it."

Mycroft holds the chart for Sherlock to use his free hand to flip through the pages.

"A month?" he croaks.

"Medically induced. To allow for any swelling in the brain and the burns." Mycroft sighs.

Sherlock chokes when he sees the photos. His charred skin is black and red. He has burns on his right calf and thigh. His right shoulder, bicep to elbow and part of his chest are also charred.

It's his face, or part of it, that causes him to vomit bile. Nurses and doctors rush in and shout to Mycroft in German. They chastise him for showing Sherlock such disturbing photos. The machines beep wildly as the nurses carefully clean Sherlock to prevent infection. He feels his limbs and head grow heavy; his sight fuzzy. Images of black flesh swim behind his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes in a large bedroom on a king sized bed, 600 count cotton sheets and a fire in a large stone hearth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kudos and comments.

Sherlock wakes in a large bedroom on a king sized bed, 600 count cotton sheets and a fire in a large stone hearth. Mycroft's house. There is still a machine beeping to his right. Bandages are still wrapped tightly around his right leg and arm. It hurts to move his right arm, so he reaches for his face with his left. Bandages still cover part of his face and neck. The pain was a more manageable. He knew Mycroft kept him in the lowest level of narcotic possible. Wouldn't want to add addiction to list, he thinks bitterly. 

"Ah brother mine. How do you feel?" Mycroft enters the room.

"I wish you'd stop sedating me." Sherlock's voice is rough from disuse.

"It's the safest way to transport you. You're home now," Mycroft says.

"Who knows? Mummy and father?" he asks.

"Not yet. It would break mummy's heart to see you like this." Mycroft's voice is tight. "Only the people who need to know are in the know."

"Is John one of those people?" Sherlock watches Mycroft carefully.

Mycroft smirks. "If he knew, where do you think he would be?"

Sherlock nods. "True."

"Mary is due very soon, and he is needed there. He should focus on that part of his life." 

"Am I a free man?" Sherlock shifts. His muscles are stiff. 

"You could be." Mycroft answers softly.

"Is not being almost burned alive enough for the King of England?" Sherlock huffs.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "It's still a Queen."

"Whatever! Am I not going to be pardoned?" Sherlock would rage more but it hurts to move.

"You have many months of surgeries ahead of you. Skin grafts. Experimental treatments. It might be best to do this under the radar." 

"Under the radar. So stay on the mission?" Sherlock asks.

Mycroft pulls up a leather chair to the side of the bed. "Sherlock, it's time to face that you will not be the same person. The consulting detective cannot run after criminals. He won't be able to hide in plain sight anymore."

Sherlock hand shakes as he touches the bandage on his cheek. "You mean my face?"

"You'll attract attention in a different way." Mycroft lays his hand on Sherlock's left arm. "I'm sorry."

"What do you suggest?" Sherlock closes his eyes.

Mycroft moves to look out the window. "I think we need to see how the treatments go. You do not have to decide now. It could be a new start. You can go anywhere you want." 

"You're not suggesting..." Sherlock says.

"No decisions today. I'll tell the nurse you're ready for your bath." Mycroft leaves.

Sherlock thinks of John. Has Mary had the baby? What would John think of him like this? A pile of burnt skin? He doesn't want the new life Mycroft offers. He wants his old one, before the fall. He longs for a fire at Baker Street and John's tea. The life before Mary took John's heart. But - that life doesn't exist.   
Months of rehabilitation and surgeries that may or may not help. He will always be disfigured in some way. John will certainly pity him. He will divide his time between Sherlock and his family. He's dutiful that way. 

Sherlock rubs his forehead and gasps at the pain. He forgets about the burns to his head. He reaches over to touch his right ear. He can't tell under the bandages how much damage it has sustained. What if it is so hideous it scares John's daughter? Or disgusts John?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fatherhood is difficult. John knows this going in. Willa is fussy and incorrigible like the uncle she's named for - the one she'll never meet.

Fatherhood is difficult. John knows this going in. Willa is fussy and incorrigible like the uncle she's named for - the one she'll never meet. She sleeps during the day and prefers the night. Another similarity that rips at John's heart.

Mary requires eight hours of sleep a night. If not, she's short and huffy. John discovers new mysteries about his life each day. Luckily for him, Sherlock has provided him sleep training by keeping John awake for long stretches of time. John sits with Willa to watch crap telly and read her mystery novels while she coos in his arms. In the morning, he will quietly dress while Willa and Mary sleep to drag his weary body to work. It's all fine, he thinks. Keeping himself busy distracts him from the gaping hole in his chest. Willa fills a big part of it. Only she brings him peace and a sliver of happiness. He tries to find it in Mary. He only feels blank. He cannot remember what made him love her so much. He felt a sense of affection while she carried Willa, but now it is companionship. Someone to discuss Willa with, someone to fill the empty corners of his flat. He remembers how even in his most still moments, Sherlock filled every space in their flat. John misses his best friend's big presence.

Two months after Mycroft has delivered the earth shattering news, he stands in John's office.

"A bit early for you?" John slips off his coat to hang on the hook behind the door.

"I've been awake for as long as you have." Mycroft smirks.

"Still have me under surveillance?" John finds that curious.

"You will always be extended family." He hands John a large pink card. "From my parents. They wish to congratulate you on Willa. Interesting choice for a name."

John drops his eyes. "Yeah well..."

"I have something else." Mycroft pulls out a thin white envelope.

"The report?" John sucks in a breath.

"It's not finalised yet. Our government is going over every detail." Mycroft adds bitterly. He takes a moment, then his face softens. "This was a gift Sherlock prepared for your daughter."

John opens the envelope to find a legal document. "What's this?"

"Sherlock had no expectation to ever father children. He set up a trust fund for Willa. Financially, she will always be cared for." Mycroft's gaze shifts down. "I think he hoped to deliver this himself when he returned."

John swallows the cold lump of tears gathering in his throat. He has not cried yet today, but that looks to change.

"How are your parents?" he asks. "With all this."

Mycroft's eyes are misty. "They are devastated. Things between us are tenuous at best."

"They blame you," John says.

Mycroft nods once. Like Sherlock, he clasps his hands behind his back.

"It's not your fault. He made decision to go. Stupid git." John clears his throat. "I'd like to visit them with Willa - eventually. It's just...too soon now."

"John, have you contacted Ella?" Mycroft asks.

"No, why?" John knows what is about to follow.

"To help you with your grief. It's been a few months now," Mycroft says.

"How are you handling your grief, Myc?" he growls. " Do you have a team of the best doctors helping you with the loss of your only brother?"

Mycroft moves to the door. "I apologise for suggesting such a thing. We all handle the death of a loved one differently. If you need anything, remember you are part of the extended family. I will contact you about my parents in a few weeks."

Then Mycroft is gone. John is out of sorts enough for Sarah to send him home early. Mary grows weary of a mourning John, but let's him nap so he can take the night shift with Willa.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is clinically depressed, the doctors say.

Sherlock is clinically depressed, the doctors say. It is expected with the injuries he has sustained and the drastic change in his life. The skin graphs have helped his thigh and arm. However, the skin on Sherlock's torso, neck and face is an angry red and gnarled flesh. It still requires bandages. When Sherlock looks at himself in the mirror, he feels light headed and violently ill. Mycroft was right. It is better this way - as Moriarty says - no one bothers with you when you're dead. Except Mycroft and his team of specialists who bother him daily.

Sherlock makes a friend of nurse Karl, an overweight middle child. Sherlock asks Karl about his dog and what movies he's seen. Karl sees Sherlock as lonely and in pain, a lot of pain. Karl gives Sherlock pain medication that he does not need but it makes Sherlock float away for awhile. He forgets John for a few hours as his every muscle and hair follicle relaxes. He sleeps and his dreams are fluffy and pleasant. The nightmare begins when he wakes and remembers he is trapped inside Mycroft's house.

Sherlock manages to secure a syringe from Karl. It's not heroin, but injecting morphine and anything else he can get his hands on, helps with the growing emptiness. His only conversations revolve around doctors, nurses, cooks, and Mycroft. He wishes he did actually die in the blast. At least after the fall, he was busy eliminating Moriarty's web. He was useful and cunning. He wasn't wandering a large London house trying to avoid every reflective surface. At least he can look forward to his next score. He takes pleasure in shooting up under Mycroft's roof.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's real this time?" Greg asks.

"It's real this time?" Greg asks.

John shrugs. "Yes. Maybe. He's set up trust funds and made amendments to his will." He sighs. "Not that is enough proof when it comes to Sherlock. But it's how Mycroft has been. He's devastated."

"Really? That old iceberg?" Greg scoffs before taking a gulp of his beer. "I guess he's a heart too."

"It only took his brother dying a second time for him to find it." John glances his watch. He slips his phone out.

How is Willa - J

"Are they ever going to release that he dead?" Greg asks. "Everyone thinks he's on a mission."

John shrugs. "I'm not sure. I don't know if it matters that it be made public. He's already had one funeral. I think Mycroft is trying to spare his parents. I've told you and Molly." He scours his forehead. "I have to tell Mrs. H. That is going to be hard. I should make Mycroft do it, but I can't guarantee he'll be delicate."

John's phone buzzes.

Willa is fine. I'm fine too. Thanks for asking - MW

John sighs and slips his mobile away. 

"How's the baby?" Greg asks.

John smiles genuinely for the first time that evening. "She's grand. Her eyes are so bright. She's starting to hold her head up and grab for things. She's brilliant."

"I'll come around soon, I promise." Greg nods.

"How is the Met?" John knows Greg will not stop by.

"I miss that bugger. My case load is ridiculous. Homicides, burglary. I've got an unsolved case file that's as thick as his head. Donovan is pissing me off too. She's like a second wife I didn't need," he huffs.

John chuckles. "You didn't need your first one."

Greg's head bobs in agreement. "Very true. She was easier to leave."

John glances over the rim of his mug.

"Fine, she left me but you what I mean." Greg shrugs.

John does know. He's thought of divorce lately. Life is too long to go like this - living a lie. He will always put Willa first, but being with Mary is difficult. They move around and give each other a wide berth. In bed, they cling to their separate sides. The one night they do have sex is helped along by wine and a first date anniversary. Even still, Sherlock is with them. He can't help thinking of how Sherlock would feel under his hands. Instead of soft flesh, there would be hard muscles rippling at his touch. John forces these images out. 

John and Greg stare at the match on the telly. Neither react when a goal is made. 

"Have you talked to someone about all this?" Greg asks.

John let's out an exasperated sigh. Counting Greg, four people suggest John seek counseling. Ella has left two messages. John thinks he's handling it just fine. There's been no outbursts or public crying jags. He's not missed work or taken to his bed. He's been a caring and attentive father to Willa. He's been patient and kind to Mary. What more do people want? He's lost his best friend. Grieving is normal.

"Did Mary do this?" John asks.

"I don't know her that well, you know that," Greg signals for two more ales.

John stares hard at Greg as he fishes in his wallet from money. "Okay, Mycroft called."

"When did you start talking to Mycroft Holmes?" John asks, incredulous.

"After Mary shot him. We're not mates, but he checks in every so often." Greg shrugs. "We just want you to be happy again."

"I'm the father to a beautiful baby girl. I am happy," John protests. "Is that not enough?"

"You tell me - is it?" Greg levels him with a look.

"I lost my best friend. It was like losing a brother. No, it was something more than that. I can't explain this hole I have. The last thing I want to do is sit with a stranger to talk about him. They wouldn't understand." John doesn't want to cry anymore. He wants to have some quiet moments with his memories. He does not want to forget. The last time, he let Sherlock slip away. Like vapour, the detective moved to the background in his mind. John wants him present. Even if it kills him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft leans against the dresser. "Karl has been terminated."

Mycroft leans against the dresser. "Karl has been terminated."

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. "I hope you mean he was just relieved of duty."

"And his nursing license." Mycroft sniffs. "I appreciate that..."

With a wince, Sherlock limps off the bed. His new skin is tight and doesn't move with him as it should. 

"I don't think you fully appreciate anything! You pulled me from the building but I wish you left me to die. It's better than this life where most of my friends think I'm dead because they would be otherwise be disgusted with my appearance! Or they would pity that I'm slow and lame. The great Sherlock Holmes is truly a monster! Kids will cower! Women will weep. No one wants to come near the disgusting once genius."

Mycroft is speechless. There's not much he can say, because Sherlock is right.

"I've lost the one person that made me feel human. His faith and friendship was everything to me, and now I'm just a fading memory." Sherlock grabs a glass of the night table and tosses it against the fireplace. Mycroft does not flinch.

"I should have taken the sentence because at least I could see him! Be a part of his life somehow."

Mycroft walks to the edge of the bed where Sherlock pants heavily. The exertion of the smallest movements have left him breathless. 

"If you are finished with your tantrum." 

Sherlock's eyes snap to the older Holmes. 

"I have a box of current unsolved cases from the Met. Everything you need. If you feel up to it, that is." Mycroft sits at the edge.

"How did you manage that?" Sherlock asks.

"You know I have my methods. Are you interested?" he asks.

Sherlock shrugs. "What else is there to do? Are you giving me Internet access for research?"

"No more drugs, Sherlock. I know you are mourning the loss of Dr. Watson, but turning your mind to porridge will not serve you." Mycroft stands.

"I have pain. I need something." Sherlock pleads.

"I will be sure you are comfortable while you heal, but there will be no abusing narcotics." He pauses at the door. "Mummy and father want to see you."

"I thought I was dead." Sherlock says churlishly.

"I couldn't do that to them." Mycroft purses his lips.

"But we could do it to John, twice." Sherlock has many regrets when it comes John. He can add dying again to the long list. He can wallpaper John's wing in his mind palace with regrets.

"Rest up. You have another consultation this afternoon." Mycroft opens the door and turns back. "You need to deal with your grief over losing him. Talk to someone."

Sherlock laughs. "Like who? You? Are you taking my drugs?"

"I can have any number of professionals here to help you." 

"Mycroft, dead men tell no tales." Sherlock turns over to face the wall. "Bring me the files and a good computer."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John stares at his computer with his hands clasped in front of his mouth. He glances over to Willa, happily sleeping in her seat.

John stares at his computer with his hands clasped in front of his mouth. He glances over to Willa, happily sleeping in her seat. He knows that reading the old blog is a bad idea, yet he does. He chuckles through the tears as he just aches. Thoroughly wrought out, he goes to the website Ella has suggested. 

He can't bring himself to see her, even if she insists. He has no interest in talking about himself and his emotions for an hour under the scrutiny of her warm eyes. He rejects the idea of group therapy. Enough people in London know who he is and can easily put it together. If he's going to be honest about his feelings, it needs to be anonymous. 

The grief chat room has been interesting, at least. There are several rooms for one to seek comfort. It's difficult to know which one fits John. He is not mourning a partner or family member. He mistakenly stumbles into the loss of a child room. He closes his laptop and holds Willa after that. Even the loss of a friend doesn't quantity his loss of what could have been and the small happiness he shared with Sherlock.  
The room that fits him best is the Black Hole. He is assigned a random user number that becomes his identity. He watches others chat and provide comfort for a loss so encompassing that breathing hurts. John can identify with this. He follows the other users as they try to find their way out of the black hole.

Tonight, one user has lost her gay lover to cancer. It was swift and took them off guard. 

USER 43: Hello, I'm new here. I have nowhere to turn

USER 6: welcome, I guess. Who did you lose?

USER 43: my girlfriend. Breast cancer. Two weeks ago. How about everyone else?

USER 129: there is a room for partners 

USER 43: they weren't very nice because I'm gay. Can you believe it? We should support each other not calling Me a carpet muncher

USER 18: that's horrible. I'm sorry u had to deal with that. Tell us about her

USER 43: she was beautiful and everything. We were going to get married in the summer. She found a lump in her breast right before Xmas. It was so aggressive we never got to say goodbye properly

USER 129: how does one say goodbye properly?

USER 43: bucket list. Party. Spending quality time. She was sick at the end 

USER 1563: cancer is terrible. I lost my mom that way

USER 43: is that why you are here?

USER 1563: no, I lost a friend. We had a big fight and then he had a car accident. I feel responsible 

USER 314: drunk driver here. Every day I want to find the person and kill them 

USER 129: revenge rarely eases the pain. I understand the inclination to want an eye for an eye 

USER 314: he was my only boy. So young.

USER 129: have you considered channeling that angry energy into something positive? Perhaps legislation for repeat offenders? Or education?

USER 314: maybe. I'm just so angry all the time

USER 129: I find hand to hand combat helpful. A boxing class?

USER 43: I do a kickboxing class. It's good

USER 314: why are you here 221?

USER 1563: does it ever get better?

USER 27: I have good days and bad days. Some weeks are just bad

USER 27: I lost my brother. Stray bullet. We live in a shitty section of Philly and most kids get struck down. Good kids too. I hate this fucking place

USER 129: I lost a piece of myself. I mourn the loss of my life 

USER 314: whoa. What happened?

John's fingers hover over the keyboard.

USER 221: loss of your life?

USER 129: yes. There was an accident and it altered everything 

USER 221: accidents have a way of doing that. What happened?

USER 129: it was a fire, and I lost everything that mattered. Everything I loved 

USER 314: did your family die?

USER 129: in a manner of speaking, yes. Family as I knew it

USER 221: I lost my best friend to a fire. 

USER 129: Funny how fire has so many beneficial uses but it can easily take everything away

USER 221: funny that. How do you keep going? 

USER 129: knowing the people I love are living and thriving 

USER 314: I thought you lost your family 

USER 129: I never said anyone died. But I mourn their absence from my life. Every single day 

USER 221: why are you not with them?

USER 129: too many challenges. I'm still in recovery. I'm far away from him.

USER 129: I mean them

USER 129 has left the room

John stares at the screen.

USER 43: it sounds like 129 still has hope

USER 1563: he or she didn't sound very hopeful. More like depressed and suicidal

USER 314: I hope they come back

John does too.

USER 221 has left the room.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's fingers hover over what he has typed into Google.
> 
> John Hamish Watson.

Sherlock's fingers hover over what he has typed into Google. 

John Hamish Watson. 

Does he want to know? When he's not feeling sorry for himself, he thinks of John. He knows baby girl Watson has been born. Mycroft reports that John is shocked by Sherlock's generosity - even beyond the grave. Mycroft reports the girl has been named Ryanne - a very trendy name. Sherlock knows that Mary is responsible for that.

Sherlock doesn't request photos. If he wants them, he can get them. He does check the blog, but there is no update in the weeks that follow the wedding. Only The Mayfly Man - the last case they ran together. 

Sherlock sighs. The night of the wedding, Sherlock left the wedding with an anvil sitting in his chest. John was gone. He watched his best friend beam at his new wife - mother of his child. John disappeared into a grey shadow. The client was knocking on his door when his taxi pulled to the kerb.

Then there was Janine, Magnussen, drugs, irate John and a shot to the heart. There was pain and death. Betrayal lurked in every corner. Yet he and John stood in the carnival of chaos together until Magnussen's last act. He flicked John. No one could be left to live after that.

Sherlock runs a finger over the newly raised edges of his earlobe. At least he still has one. 

"Is that a good idea?" Mycroft hovers in the doorway. He is always hovering.

"I am fresh out of good ideas, brother mine. All I have is bad." Sherlock closes the browser. He can revisit tomorrow. 

"You have solved two cases from the grave. That's impressive."

Mycroft looks to the boxes of Met files beside Sherlock's chair from Baker Street that he has placed beside the hearth.

Sherlock spins from cherry desk that serves as his office. "How do you explain this to Lestrade? Or is he in on our little secret as it serves your purpose?"

"Why it would it serve me?" Mycroft asks coolly.

"Why indeed?" Sherlock quirks an eyebrow.

"I obtained these for you. How I decimate the findings is irrelevant," Mycroft says.

"I suppose you've come to tell me that my microscope has been delivered." Sherlock opens a new browser window.

"Tomorrow. I came to inform you that Mummy insists on seeing you." Mycroft states.

"Has she seen the photographs?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes, she and father have." Mycroft nods.

"I'm not ready to see them." Sherlock opens a file on the desk. He waves his hands around his face. "I just can't."

Mycroft sighs. "They are your parents. Will you speak with them on the phone at least?"

"To hear the pity dripping from her voice?" Sherlock shakes his head. "Why am I alive to them? What made you decide who I lived for?"

"Sherlock..." Mycroft starts.

He spins his chair to face the head of the Government looming in the doorway.

"I wish you hadn't taken advantage of my state then. I was sedated and in pain. I made a foolish decision. One I can never take back." His voice cracks.

"If it means that much, I can say that I acted alone," Mycroft offers.

Sherlock thinks of the letter. He should have never wrote his thoughts down after his farewell to John. His emotions were raw and seeping through his pores. 

"John will know. He barely forgave the fall from St. Bart's. What's done is done." Sherlock feels the rough skin under the dressing gown. "I will speak to our parents tomorrow." He looks over his shoulder. "Will that be all?"

Mycroft watches him for a moment longer. "Dinner is in two hours."

He leaves but does not close the door.

Sherlock clicks on a link in his recent browser history and scans the chat room. He hopes USER 221 is on.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> USER 129 has entered the room

USER 129 has entered the room

USER 230: I'll be back after my therapy session. Wish me luck

USER 221: good luck. I might not be on when you get back. It's midnight here

USER 230: thanks. Check in tomorrow then! Bye!

USER 230 has left the room

USER 314 has left the room

USER 129: good evening 

USER 221 has left the room

USER 221 has entered the room

USER 221: hello?

USER 129: I thought you left

USER 221: I saw you right as I signed out

USER 129: I'm flattered

USER 221: no mourner left behind 

USER 129: is that our motto in the Black Hole?

USER 221: just my personal one. What brings you here tonight?

USER 129: boredom. Solitude. You?

USER 221: insomnia 

USER 129: Ah yes. Lovely byproduct of grief. Are you having a tough night?

USER 221: a tough week. There was nothing that brought it on, just that gnawing emptiness 

USER 129: how long has it been since your friend passed?

USER 221: it's been 7 months since I saw him. About 4 months since I heard he died

USER 129: did you have a falling out?

USER 221: no, he moved away. He died after he left

USER 129: so you need closure 

USER 221: I'm not sure it's possible

USER 129: why are you here if not to find closure?

USER 221: I don't know. It feels good to help people. Even if I'm a lost cause 

USER 129: do you honestly believe that?

USER 221: everyone wants me to get over it. Move on 

USER 129: it makes those who do not feel as deeply justify their lack of empathy 

USER 221: thank you!! They make me feel foolish for still missing him. Like I'm the one that's broken. Shouldn't they be upset?

USER 129: they weren't the ones in love with him 

USER 221: I never said I was in love. He was a friend 

USER 129: my apologies. I assumed it was more than a friend by your grief

USER 221: can't you miss a friend?

USER 129: yes

USER 221: I mean, he was more than a friend. Nothing like that, but he was the best person I've ever known.

USER 129: you loved him, but was not in love with him

USER 221: sort of. It is complicated 

USER 129: it was complicated. Now it's just mourning 

USER 221: fuck you. We're meant to be supportive here

USER 129: I did not mean to offend. These complicated emotions were not resolved between you two?

USER 221: no. It is still complicated 

USER 129: did he know?

USER 221: no. I wasn't sure until he moved away. It seemed like an awkward thing to email. I was waiting to see what happened when he visited. If I still felt like that. I wish I had been brave enough 

USER 129: regrets are useless 

USER 221: you're not very good at this comforting thing, are you?

USER 129: not particularly, but I am trying 

USER 221: it's all you can do. Get up and go about the day

USER 129: what keeps you going

USER 221: my family. They depend on me. 

USER 129: ah, complications? Wife? Children?

USER 221: yes

USER 129: it makes perfect sense as to why you never told your male friend that you were in love with him

90 seconds pass

USER 221: what's your story?

USER 129: deflection. Am I making you nervous?

USER 221: no, just...

USER 129: uncomfortable

USER 221: maybe, I'm trying to get over it

USER 129: him or it

USER 221: both. Tell me your story

USER 43: oh tank godd some1 is hear

USER 129: another time 

USER 2221: what, me?

USER 129: 43, what's wrong?

USER 129: yes, another time. I promise

USER 43: saw my gfs family. They never likd me. They blame me I kno

USER 129: have you been drinking?

USER 43: mmmaybe. Hurts so much

USER 129: have you stopped?

USER 43: got wine

USER 221: using a depressant like alcohol is a bad idea. Do you have ginger ale or Coke?

USER 43: miss her so much. Can't do it anymore. Want to join her

USER 129: Think of how you feel at this moment. Would you want to do that to your family? 

USER 43: No, but it feels hard to breethe

USER 221: The moment will pass. Years ago I felt so desperate that I would sit with a loaded gun and consider ending it all. There was nothing that kept me tied to my life. No one would miss me. But then I met the most amazing person. If I had ended it, I would have never known him - and that would have been tragic. 

USER 43: This the friend that died?

USER 221: Yes, but as much as it hurts that he's gone, never knowing him would have been worse. 

USER 43: I just want it to stop hurting

USER 129: Killing yourself is an awful to carry on her legacy. What do you think she would say if she heard you now?

USER 43: She be pissed

USER 43: I so alone

USER 221: We will stay here as long as you need, right 129?

USER 129: yes

USER 221 and USER 129 stay awake with USER 43, who lives to see another dawn .


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John waits until Mary goes up to bed before he fishes out the Manila folder from his briefcase.

John waits until Mary goes up to bed before he fishes out the Manila folder from his briefcase. He's dreaded this day. As time passes, he hopes that maybe Mycroft and the DNA are wrong. Sherlock is just invalided in a hospital with amnesia. It's foolish to even entertain the notion. 

He pours himself a large tumbler of whiskey and places the folder on the coffee table. He's not ready for this. Mycroft warns him it is a tough read. 

The photos are the first thing he sees. His eyes snap shut at the shock. He's glad he didn't eat much dinner because his stomach rolls violently. With a deep breath, he forced himself to look. Most of the skin is a mess of charred black and exposed red flesh. John looks for any distinguishing marks. He hasn't seen all of Sherlock's skin, but he remembers his torso from his parading around in a towel or sheet. John searches for a familiar mole or anything, but the skin is too damaged. He sees dark curls matted with mud and blood. The face is....gone. Blunt force trauma, probably in the blast. He wonders how close Sherlock was to the detonation. 

He stares at the photos hoping for any clue that prove that all the government experts are wrong. There is nothing but the empty space growing.

John flips to the report. He already knows what killed Sherlock. Blunt force trauma to the head and torso. Third degree burns over 85% of this body. Dental records and DNA testing from tissue and hair samples match William Sherlock Scott Holmes born January 6th, 1981. 

John pulls the worn out letter from his pocket to lay beside the report. 

Sherlock left before his 34th birthday. It's too young to die...again. 

John's whiskey burns his throat. He nearly finishes it in one swallow.

The rest of the report blurs as he pours another whiskey.

Did he know he was going to die? What were his last thoughts? Did he think 'please don't let me die'? Was it quick or did he suffer? Did he feel the flames over his body? 

John isn't sure how long he sits with his head buried in his hands. His shoulders ache as he straightens his back. His head swims with memories of Sherlock.

John opens his computer and logs into the Black Hole. 

USER 221 has entered the room.

He sees a lot of familiar user numbers along with some new ones. He reads the sad stories of others and feels for them. The purpose of the site is to help one another. Tonight he is looking for the sardonic wit of USER 129. Something about his unconventional tone comforts John. He figures 129 is a man, but he could be wrong. He'll ask the next time he's on line. 129 makes John smile, sometimes laugh even. Tonight, he could use a chuckle. Something to fill the void. 

He reads Sherlock's letter twice and does something he hasn't done in weeks. He crawls in bed with his wife and holds her till dawn.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock insists meeting them after the sun has set. The only light allowed is the roaring fire, despite the fact it is early August.

Sherlock insists meeting them after the sun has set. The only light allowed is the roaring fire, despite the fact it is early August. He's glad that summer will be over. He has only been outside a few times. The grounds of Mycroft's estate are private and vast. He rarely goes out in the day, and if he does he pulls the hood over his head.

His fingers drum nervously on the leather arm of Mycroft's chair.

"Relax, brother mine." Mycroft lays a hand on his younger brother's shoulder.

Sherlock knows how horrifying he looks. Most of the household staff has grown used to his grotesque appearance. Anthea no longer flinches when he walks into the room. But when there is new help, he sees them shirk in surprise. First, pity fills their eyes. Next comes the morbid curiosity. Mycroft was correct when he said that Sherlock could no longer work as he did. He considers Mycroft's offer to relocate. Maybe Australia or New York. He needs a city that he can disappear into a throng of people.

Sherlock hears them bustle in through the front door. Mycroft moves to usher them in. A hushed conversation barely makes it over the crackling fire. It's fine, Sherlock doesn't want to know. He wishes that John was here.

He feels her presence before he sees her. Her eyes shimmer with tears.

"Son." She crouches in front of him.

"Mother." He ducks the right side of his head into the darkness.

"Let me see, my boy." Her voice is tentative and tender.

"It's awful, Mother. I'm a monster." His lower lips quivers.

"Never, my son." Her fingers cradle his chin to tilt his face to the firelight.

Sherlock hears a quick intake of air. "Oh Sherlock."

The tears she's been holding fall on Sherlock's sleeve.

She covers her hand with a shaky mouth. "I'm sorry. I just..."

He touches her shoulder. "It's okay, Mother. It's hard to see. I know, I have to face it every day."

"Will it hurt if I touch?" she asks.

"No, most of the nerve endings have been severed or damaged," he answers softly.

Mummy presses her palm against the gnarled skin on his cheek. "You are always beautiful to me. I was so worried when you were away." She turns to Mycroft. "No more, Myc. You keep him safe."

"Yes, Mummy. No more missions."

"I'm dead. How can I go anywhere?" Sherlock glares at his brother.

"We decided it was best. At the time, we didn't know how long it would take to recover or if he would." Mycroft steps forward.

Sherlock motions to scars covering the right side of his face. "Is this recovered?"

"You're walking again. You could barely move your right arm for months," Mycroft says.

"I scare children!" Sherlock snarls.

Mycroft barely blinks and smiles. "You always scared children."

Sherlock narrows his eyes, then laughs. Mycroft joins in.

"Did he have to die?" Father Holmes asks. 

"It gave him choices. We've discussed him relocating and starting over." 

Mummy whirls around on Mycroft. "Start over? A new identity?"

"A pseudonym. A place that doesn't know who he was," Mycroft says.

"He is still Sherlock. Don't try to take that from him! I can't believe you convinced him to allow you to go with farce. Poor John!" Mummy sobs.

Sherlock glances up at Mycroft. "Yes, this was an excellent idea."

Mycroft and Mummy argue over Sherlock's future while he and Father Holmes stare at the fire. Whatever Sherlock does now, it means nothing. He can stay here in Mycroft's sprawling estate, or use the cottage in Scotland. He could move to New York or South Africa. He is free from who he was and the expectations of Sherlock. It should feel freeing, but it feels like purgatory. He can see his loved ones lives but cannot interact - like a ghost. Dying was the worst decision he almost made. Deep down, he will always resent Mycroft's counsel on the matter.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> USER 129 has entered the room

USER 129 has entered the room

USER 38: I feel guilty... like I've betrayed my husband's memory 

USER 221: it's been over a year. He would expect you to love again 

USER 38: I guess

USER 221: did you have fun?

USER 38: I did. Is that okay?

USER 221: you can love more than one person in your lifetime 

USER 129: sounds like you speak from experience 

USER 221: hello there friend! Where have you been?

USER 129: hospital 

USER 221: are you okay?

USER 129: yes, just some follow up with consultants

USER 221: consultants?

USER 129: skin graphs. 

USER 221: you mentioned a fire. I don't I've heard the story about it

USER 129: that's because I've never talked about it

USER 221: would it help to?

USER 129: unless it can turn back the hands of time, no

USER 221: you may find it helpful. How did it happen?

USER 129: fell asleep smoking 

USER 221: oh Christ

USER 129: please, no lectures. Suffice to say, it has cured me of the habit

USER 38: did you get burned?

USER 129: I did mention skin graphs, yes?

USER 221: how much of your body?

USER 129: 25%. My leg, arm, torso and face 

USER 38 has left the room

USER 129: the graphs worked on my leg and arm, part of my torso. We tried using synthetic skin but my body has rejected anything we've tried

USER 221: what does that mean?

USER 129: I'll never be the same. 

USER 221: what did you do before the accident 

USER 129: I saw my parents for the first time this evening.

USER 221: how did that go

USER 129: it is difficult to see the people who cared for you the most be horrified by your appearance. All the hopes they had for my life washed down the figurative drain. 

USER 221: your family and friends will always care for you

USER 129: care and respect turns to pity and pandering. 

USER 129: I shouldn't have come on tonight. I'm not in the right frame of mind. Apologies 

USER 129 has left the room

USER 221: I hope you get this message. I'm always here if you need to talk or rant. Always


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson rubs small circles in Willa's back as she naps against her breast.

Mrs. Hudson rubs small circles in Willa's back as she naps against her breast. 

"She's a perfect angel, John," she coos. "Just perfect."

"She's a love," John says affectionately. 

It's difficult to be back at Baker Street knowing the upstairs will never vibrate with Sherlock's violin.

"And the middle name. I never expected that." She pats the sleeping infant.

"You've been a wonderful mother to me, Mrs. Hudson. There was never a doubt." John smiles.

"Won't Sherlock be surprised to hear the name when he returns."

John swallows hard. His hand shakes as he retrieves the Manila folder from the diaper bag.

"About that," his voice breaks.

He doesn't have to say anything; Mrs. Hudson sees it in his eyes.

"Not again," she whispers.

"Don't be cross, but I've known for awhile. I wanted the final report. I wanted to be the one to tell you. I made certain it wasn't Mycroft." His hand covers her where she braces herself on her floral sofa.

She looks to the sleeping baby in her arms. "You knew when she was born."

John nods just once. "I didn't want to tell you like this."

Mrs. Hudson cradles the baby closer. "There's no good way, dear. There's been nothing in the papers."

"I don't think Mycroft is releasing that information. He died while on a top secret government mission as a non-government agent. Lestrade will deflect inquiries at the Met. Sherlock didn't have a large circle of friends." It breaks John's heart that not many know how incredible his friend is.

"I can't believe we're here again. Losing him. Especially after what you went through the last time." Mrs. Hudson swallows a sob.

John rubs his forehead and bites his lip to not cry. "I know."

"At least you have Mary this time." She smiles weakly.

That feels like the bigger joke. Mary has tried to comfort him, but when she does it feels forced and false. She wants the John Watson before Sherlock came back. Maybe even before they were married - but he has been altered by life and lies. 

"And Willa." John touches the reddish curls on his daughter's head. He has no idea what Mary's real hair colour was, so maybe it was red. John notices it becomes more golden like his as a child as the curls pop up all over her head - like a redhead Sherlock.

"She's brilliant." The dam breaks and John shudders violently as he buries his face in his hands.

Carefully, Mrs. Hudson transfers Willa to her pram. She wraps her free arms around John and rubs his back. His tears wet the shoulder of her blouse.

"There, love. We'll get through this. We've each other and I know you'll come around more often unlike the last time."

John feels her tears against the back of his neck. 

"I wish he could've met her," John whispers.

"He would have loved her. She's part of you." Mrs. Hudson pets his head. 

Her words strike him. Again, he wonders what could have been. There was a moment so small that if John blinked he would've missed it. It was right before the wedding - the stag night. Woozy with booze, they sat in front of the fire and gazed at each other. A thousand words scrolled at the moment John touched Sherlock's leg.

"I don't mind." His voice was husky and gaze intent. 

John's mouth went dry and his cock twitched. He knew Sherlock would taste of ale and scotch. He gave the detective's thigh a squeeze. Sherlock smiled and lifted his eyes.

Then the client came.

John has dinner with Mrs. Hudson. It's comforting to be with someone who is also devastated by Sherlock's death. He shows her the report. Then after two glasses of cheap white wine, he shows her the letter.

"How many times have you read this, dear?" Her eyes shine with tears.

John shakes his head. "I've lost count. I read it when I wake and before I go to bed. I lose track in between."

Mrs. Hudson wraps her arms around John and holds him until the tears dry up.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock logs on everyday. Sometimes he keeps the browser open just in case.

Sherlock logs on everyday. Sometimes he keeps the browser open just in case. USER 221's message floats across his mobile screen. He wants to reach out to this man, but it feels odd. For so long John has been his conscience and rock. He is adrift and alone. USER 221 is the first person he connects with. A new hole opens in him for every day USER 221 does not log on.

It is four days when Sherlock hears the chime. 

USER 221 has entered the room.

He feels a rush of relief and excitement. He manages to contain himself until 221 speaks up.

USER 221: how is everyone? I had a rough week

USER 1563: my friends family returned a box of my stuff this week. It sucked

USER 221: sounds like you were close. 

USER 1563: we were

USER 221: you mention an argument before he died. What was it about?

USER 1563: I don't want to talk about it

USER 221: okay, sorry I asked

USER 221: I had to tell a friend I haven't seen in awhile that our mutual friend died. It was really, really awful 

USER 129: that must have been difficult

USER 221: hey, how are you?

USER 129: I'm well. Surviving. But I'm here for you tonight

USER 221: this friend, like a mum to me, hadn't heard. I had to tell her. It was like tearing open an incision that had begun to heal

USER 129: if you were healing, you will again. One day, he'll be a happy memory that you can recall when you want

USER 221: that's not what I want. I don't want him in the back of my mind again 

USER 129: again?

USER 221: I've lost before. Not him. It was a girlfriend to suicide. I don't want him to be a memory. I want him here

USER 129: that's not possible, you know that. At some point, you have to move on. Take care of your family.

USER 221: is that what you are doing?

USER 129: do not deflect. It's about you today. 

USER 221: sorry

USER 221: I just don't want to forget the most amazing person I've known

USER 1563: you were in love with him. But you're married to a woman, right?

USER 221: I am. And I did...do love him. I realised too late

USER 1563: the argument we had was that my friend wanted us to come out. I was afraid at what my dad would do. What were our friends say? We fought about that then he died. I should have been brave. Why couldn't I tell everyone?

USER 221: me too. I wish I had said something before he moved

USER 129: would he be alive?

USER 221: I have no idea. He would have known that I loved him. Maybe that would have helped comfort him in his last moments 

USER 1563: I hope my boyfriend thought that. I hope he remembered I loved him.

Sherlock wonders what John thought when he read the letter. It was a bold decision to spill his heart on to the page. However it was cowardly to give it to John after Sherlock knew he would not have to deal with consequences. He'll never know if John was embarrassed or touched. What if John felt the same? There were moments like John's stag night, if that bloody woman hadn't turned up. Well, James Sholto would have died at John's wedding. It would have ruined his best friend's day. Even though a part of him died listening to John say 'I do' - he wouldn't have wanted that to hang over John's head.

USER 221: have you told your family about him

USER 1563: not yet. Do you think I should?

USER 221: only if you are ready

USER 129: it might be a nice tribute to a man you loved. Also provide closure

USER 1563: I'm with User 221. I'm not ready to forget or move on

USER 129: just be open to new people and experiences, then

USER 221: I agree with that. New people can be good, 129. Good night. We'll talk soon

USER 129: goodnight 221. Soon

USER 221 has left the room.

Sherlock traces his fingers over his lips. A warm sensation blooms in his chest. He feels less alone tonight. 

USER 129 has left the room.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock knows it is a bad idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments and kudos. I promise there will be a light at the end of the tunnel.

Sherlock knows it is a bad idea. He even considers asking 221 what his thoughts are on the matter. Purposely, Sherlock leaves holes in what he reveals to the chat room. There's been no announcement of his death, so no media coverage. Still, Sherlock keeps the truth guarded and a bit twisted, like him.  
It has been six months since Mycroft delivered the letter to John. Everyday, Sherlock wonders about John. Last time he left, John was alone. It was no wonder that he'd been so affected. This time, John has Mary and the baby. He has a full life now. Sherlock barely fit into it before he left. John should be able to pick up just fine this time. 

But Sherlock wants to be certain.

He opens a new browser. Facebook. He logs in under one of his many aliases. David Smith. Many people know a David Smith making it is easy to get a friend request. In fact, unbeknownst to him, John is friends with David Smith, thinking he is an old mate from university.

Sherlock takes a deep breath before typing John Watson into the search bar.

His chest catches painfully. The profile photo is John holding a swaddled infant in his arms. The look of adoration as John beams at the baby takes Sherlock's breath away. 

He closes his eyes. Terrible horrible idea.

Yet he cannot turn back now. He scrolls down watching months rewind. He is back to July, the prior year. John has changed his status to 'married'. 

Sherlock clicks on the album labeled 'Wedding'. Unlike Mary's, there are only a dozen pictures in the album. 

There is an obligatory photo of Mary laughing at the head table surrounded by her bridesmaids. His stomach turns a little when he sees Janine. He wonders how she's getting on in Sussex with her little cottage. There is a photo of Mary and Mrs. Hudson at the table. A photo of Molly and Lestrade. The incomparable James Sholto. Sherlock frowns, still a feeling of jealousy wells up inside him. He is surprised to find that there are only four photos of John and Mary. 

Walking down the aisle after being announced.

Dancing to Sherlock's waltz.

At the table during Sherlock's speech.

At the receiving line, with Sherlock.

Sherlock clicks to the second page of photos. Heat rushes to his cheeks. The remainder of the photos are of him and John.

A photo of Sherlock pinning John's boutonnière while John watches him. 

Walking through the church in deep counsel.

After dinner - alone at the table - leaning into each other mid conversation.

The moment John hugged Sherlock after his speech.

The two of them laughing with Sherlock's hand squeezing John's shoulder.

It is the last photo that shakes him to the core.

He tries to remember the photo being taken, but the stag night is still a blur. At some point, Sherlock wrapped his arm around John and they took a photo with John's phone. Their smiles are dopey and large, but filled with so much joy. They were sat on their sofa with their cheeks pressed together. It fills Sherlock with an overwhelming sense of longing.

He closes the album and scans the rest of the entries. There is a big gap from the wedding. Sherlock rolls his eyes at the ridiculous number of inane tests John has taken. Does he really need to know what movie he is or what city he should live in?

The first real entry after the wedding happens in the week after Sherlock left.

January 12, 2015 "I'm happy to announce that Mary and I expecting a baby girl in April"

There is an obligatory photo of Mary's swollen belly. Another picture of John's hand resting on the belly with a large grin. 

February 10, 2015 "Thinking of a friend today. Hope you are well."

Sherlock smiles. John was thinking of him. He notices that there are no entries until April. 

April 14, 2015 "at 1:29pm, Mary and I welcomed Willa Martha into the world. Mary did wonderfully. Willa is incredible and beautiful." 

There is a picture of a red infant wrapped in a striped pastel blanket with a pink cap on her head. She is beautiful.

Wait, Sherlock blinks. He reads the entry again. Willa? Mycroft told him the baby was named Ryanne or something. Willa?

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes. That's the whole of it."

"Sherlock is actually a girl's name."

"We're not naming her after you."

Sherlock touches the baby on the screen. He did name her for Sherlock, because John thinks that he is dead. 

Tears hit the keyboard. He should have been there to welcome her to the world. He wishes he could be there now.

The remaining entries all contain Willa. Her first day home. Her first bath. Her first night in her cot. Her first smile. John's Facebook is dedicated to his baby girl. 

While it fills Sherlock with happiness, he also realises that he is not missed. He didn't expect an announcement. Mycroft agreed to keep it quiet. But John looks quite happy with his little family. Even if he was to return from mission, there would be no room for him again.

July 22, 2015 "Willa and Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock sighs. His family. Does Mrs. Hudson know? 

Before he closes his laptop, Sherlock scrolls back the wedding pictures. He has forgotten what he looked like before the fire. His pale skin is replaced with shiny, pink knotted skin. It's hard to the touch, unlike his left cheek. Only part of his eyebrow has grown back in. For years, he didn't care about his physical appearance. He knew people found him attractive. Heads turned and pupils dilated when he moved close and smiled. He could have had Irene if he had desired. John had called him handsome on a few occasions - usually to chastise him for using his looks to work a case.

Now he is wretched. His dark curls mask some of the damage, but the burn scar is very visible along his neck. Even his hand is scabbed and gnarled. John would never want a photo now. John would look at him with pity and sadness.

Sherlock snaps the laptop closed. He walks over to his wardrobe to retrieve the bottle of expensive Vodka he has hidden. Some nights, it was a medicinal sleep aid. Tonight, it will numb the pain.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John hates writing reports.

John hates writing reports. He has a stack of patient files filled with notes on his desk that need to be converted into a comprehensive report. He locks his office door and tunes into internet radio for company. He tells Mary that he'll miss dinner tonight and to go ahead without him.

John hears a chime from his computer. He keeps the chat room open in case 129 comes on. It's usually the same users - no one new. John tamps down the disappointment when 129 is not on line. In the top right corner, an envelope icon blinks red. It's the first time John's ever seen it. He clicks to open a pop-up screen.

USER 129 would like permission to chat - accept or deny?

John hits 'accept'.

129: good evening 

221: I had no idea this site had a chat function

129: I discovered it a few weeks ago. This is the time I've used it. 

221: I'm flattered I'm the first person you reached out to

129: I wanted to when I first realised but I was....apprehensive

221: why's that?

129: feels like an escalation of things. Perhaps the start of a new friendship?

221: I think that's a good thing

129: I was never very good in that arena - making new acquaintances 

John thinks of Sherlock.

221: are you a rude arsehole?

Thirty seconds pass. John feels guilty.

221: I'm sorry. I was just taking the piss. It's difficult to get humour across 

129: I have social anxiety which makes interpersonal relationships difficult. Even more so now

221: have you been out in public since your accident?

129: beyond doctor visits, no

221: that's not healthy for you, mate

129: being shunned by the public is not healthy for my fragile psyche

221: do you have any interaction with others?

129: there's the chat room 

221: I mean in person 

129: my immediate family. It's hard enough to see their faces 

221: what about friends?

129: I didn't have many. They all moved on with their lives. 

221: they couldn't have been good friends if they just fucked off on you

129: they don't need me getting in the way or holding them back

221: I'm sorry you feel that way. I'm here if you need a friend 

129: thank you. It's a two way street. However I'm sure you have plenty of friends 

221: no one understands me right now. It's been six months and they think I should be over it. But it feels like I found out yesterday 

129: I was wallowing in the past earlier. It used to be a comforting place. The life moves forward and the past I'm clinging to is not as recent as others past. They think of last week while I'm trapped in a world 10 months ago

221: I feel frozen too. There is not much to look forward to

129: I look forward to you, to talking with you

John smiles. 

221: I admit that I'm disappointed when you're not online. I think we're in the same zone, but I'm not sure. You might just keep odd hours

129: I do keep eccentric hours. Aside from physical therapy, my days are wide open. I'm awake at night and sleep in the day

221: have you considered returning to work? Might help

129: my work was in the public eye. 

221: what did you do?

There's no answer after a minute. John is worried that he's pressed his new friend too much. The point of the chat room is for complete anonymity. John is probably crossing a boundary.

221: I'm sorry. I know we're meant to not know anything about each other 

129: no, it's fine. I was a trial lawyer. With my disfigurement, it's impossible to return to a public forum. I am currently looking over cases for a colleague to offer my insight

221: that must feel good, right?

129: to feel necessary? Useful?

221: I'm sorry, I'm struggling to get my thoughts across right 

129: you are fine. It is good to have something to do besides miss my prior life and wait for you to come on line

John's grin widen and his cheeks flush. 

221: you're good for my ego. I think I'd like to meet you

John wishes he could delete that.

221: I'm sorry if that was weird 

129: you apologise a lot. Is it just me or do you do it to everyone?

John rubs his chin.

221: you're right. I do apologise all the time. 

129: you can stop with me. I will inform you when you've gone to far. 

129:I'm in North Yorkshire in a place of rehabilitation 

John nearly jumps out of skin. 

221: I'm not that far. Suburb of London

He begins to type 'maybe we can meet up for coffee or drink' but deletes it immediately.

129: then you keep odd hours as well

221: I often have insomnia so...

John's phone buzzes.

Are you coming home soon? MW

John looks at the time. Shit, it's nine.

He looks down at the report he hasn't finished. 

Leaving in 15 - J

He looks at the computer.

129: you can certainly contact me when you do. I will most likely be up

129: hello?

221: sorry. Wife was calling 

129: I assumed you were home

221: I was at work 

129: what kind of work has you there until 9 at night on the computer?

John doesn't want to say he's a doctor. He knows it's unlikely this bloke will know who he is based on occupation. However, 129 seems pretty intelligent - like Sherlock. John shakes his head.

221: I'm a nurse. I'm just filling out report before I go home

129: nurse?

221: yes, male nurse. Are you going to make fun?

129: not at all. I know for a fact they have a difficult job. Imagine me as a patient 

221: haha, true. Can we talk later or tomorrow?

129: of course. I look forward to it

221: me too. Until then, good night 

129: good night friend

129 has left chat

For the first time in awhile, John whistles on his way home.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gazes out of his bedroom window. He's glad that the last green leaf in the trees have turned gold and red.

Sherlock gazes out of his bedroom window. He's glad that the last green leaf in the trees have turned gold and red. The summer has been interminably long. Mycroft's estate isn't exactly a prison, but Sherlock is trapped here. He only leaves the grounds to visit specialists and physical therapists. His parents come to see him every few weeks. They invite him to stay at their cottage. He declines, it's too close to London. It's too tempting to find John, see him in the flesh, breathe the same air.

His phone buzzes inside the pocket of his maroon dressing gown. With a frown, he pulls it out. Only three people have this number, and he's already spoken with two of them today.

'You have one new notification.'

His finger swipes the bubble, and the Mourners site application opens. 

221: good day! I just downloaded the app. Now we can chat anywhere 

Sherlock heart flips a little.

129: I forgot I had this on my phone. I might have used it once

221: so where were we?

129: where are you?

221: according to my wife, napping. I just needed a moment 

129: and you chose to talk to me?

221: is that alright?

129: it's all fine

221: sorry I fell asleep last night. The baby has a cold so I was up with that

Sherlock and 221 chat almost every day - usually after 10pm when 221's wife goes to bed. They each reveal a bit more about themselves.   
221 met his wife at work where she was a patient. They've been married almost two years and their son is almost a year. Meanwhile, Sherlock tells his new friend that he was a lawyer. He has yet to reveal any emotional attachments to 221, he's not certain that he will.

221: what are you doing now?

129: looking at the changing leaves. I'm thankful summer is over. I enjoy a fire but its bit excessive, even for a northern England summer.

221: I prefer autumn. A bit of grey and cool is welcome over the cheeriness of summer

129: I agree. 

221: Have you done what we discussed?

129: gone out in public?

221: you said you'd kill for a good cappuccino. There has to be a café in the nearest village 

129: I'm not ready 

221: what would it take?

Sherlock wants to say 'I would like to meet you. To thank you for giving me a reason to get out of bed'

129: more time. 

221: perhaps one day, we can meet in person. I think I'd to shake the hand of the person that has pulled me from the depths a few times

A fluttering develops in Sherlock's stomach. He gnaws on his lower lip.

129: I hope I can be ready for that one day 

Would this man recognise him, or be repulsed?

221: I won't ask for a photo. 

129: I wouldn't give it

221: I know. Same here. I do wonder what you look like though 

129: when do you wonder this?

Good god, it sounds like he's flirting. 

221: you know, when we chat. Can you describe yourself?

129: I'm tall and love long walks on the beach

221: fuck off! Never mind. 

129: I'm sorry. We just went from a mourning group to a date site. I'll be serious 

221: no, it's fine. I'm being strange

129: I am tall. Dark hair and scarred face

221: I have light brown hair and a scarred heart

129: aren't we a pair?

221: that we are. Oh shit. Wife is calling for dinner. Later?

129: I have work to do, but I might be on

221: good to see you working and putting that big brain to use

129: how do you know I have a big brain?

221: it's how I picture you. Goodbye tall, dark and scarred

129: until later Nurse Scarred Heart

Sherlock slips his mobile into his pocket. His right cheek feels tight as a large grin breaks across his face. Normally a meeting with Mycroft would put him into an ominous mood, yet he feels more buoyant than he's felt in months.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She's gorgeous, John." Greg smiled. "She's got your eyes."

"She's gorgeous, John." Greg smiled. "She's got your eyes."

"I keep telling him that." Mary winks.

Willa rubs her eyes and yawns. 

"Time for her nap." Mary collects the baby from John's arms. "Let you boys talk football and such."

Willa cries as Mary leaves the room. Her chubby arms reach towards John. He pops up to drop a kiss on top of her strawberry curls.

"See you soon, love," he says affectionately.

"Look at you, the doting dad," Greg teases. 

"I know, me? Mr. Running After Danger?" John chuckles.

"You seem better than the last time a saw you," Greg offers.

John scratches the back of his neck. "It's been a few months so, time and all that."

Greg drops his eyes to his hands. "Sorry about that, mate. It's been crazy at work. It's like the world has gone a bit mad."

"I watch the news. What do you make of those two women? Cult?" John asks.

"There's nothing that suggests more than one person. We're still looking to see if there's some relation between the them, common thread." Greg shakes his head wearily. "This is when I miss the bastard."

John's phone buzzes. 

"I miss him every day," John says wistfully. He's itching to get to his phone.

Nervously Greg glances up the stairs. "You and Sherlock, you were just regular mates, right?"

John's face warms immediately. He thinks of the letter tucked away in his wallet.

"I'm not sure you could call anything having to do with Sherlock 'regular'," he jokes lightly.

"I'm sorry. It was wrong of me to ask." 

"There was nothing like that between us. We were more than friends but nothing like that," John asserts. He wants to add that he wishes like hell it could be have been more, but if that had happened and Sherlock died, he would have an empty heart and bed.

John stands. "Another one?"

"I should go." Greg glances at his watch.

"Are you sure? I am glad you came round. I miss you too, you know." John's phone buzzes again.

Greg settles back against the sofa. "Why not?"

"I'll be right back." John smiles. He pulls his phone from his pocket as he pushes into the kitchen.

129: you are right. Hannibal is delightfully grotesque.

John smiles.

221: I had a feeling you'd enjoy it

128: for never having met me, you know me well

Maybe it's the beer or the general feeling of contentment buzzing through John that inspires him.

221: I wish I knew your name. It feels silly thinking of you as a number

John immediately regrets pushing send. He waits by the refrigerator for a response from the bubble with the scrolling ellipses.

129: perhaps just a first name?

221: that's anonymous enough, unless you have a very unique one

A few seconds pass. John is taking too long in the kitchen. He rummages around for a few more bottles of ale. When his phone vibrates, he scrambles to grab it from the counter.

129: David is fairly ordinary. Yours? Let me guess. Eugene? Angus? George? Hugh?

John chuckles. Even though his name is as common as it gets, it feels too close. So far, he's created a different profession and life for himself. He has left large holes into the real John.

221: Mike. Pleased to meet you David.

129: it's a good solid name. Who is like God

221: I'm sorry 

129: your name. You've been named after an archangel

John feels guilty for lying. The name Mike pops into his head as he thinks of the friend that brought him to Sherlock all those years ago. 

221: I'd have to look up what your name means

He hears Mary chatting with Greg. 

221: you liked Hannibal then?

129: it's the most disturbing bit of science fiction on television. Of course I enjoyed it

221: one night, we'll watch it together. On line?

129: that is a brilliant idea

221: I've got to run. Will you be around later?

129: my parents are coming over so I will require something to look forward to. Until then, Mike

221: good day, David

"Sorry, I couldn't find the opener." John rushes back into the sitting room.

Mary searches his face. "Why are you flushed?"

John chuckles. "What? I told you, I couldn't locate the opener. Found it under he counter." He hands Greg a beer.

Mary's gaze lingers a bit longer before she returns to her conversation.

John isn't sure why he doesn't just tell her about David. He wasn't doing anything wrong. He's made a friend that is helping him get over losing Sherlock. He tries to ignore the fact that he hears a voice similar to Sherlock's when he reads David's messages. He likes that he has a name for 129. It could be fake, like John's. Perhaps they both have created a new identity and world where they can exist and thrive. John isn't sure Ella would approve of this aspect. He knows it's a tad unhealthy but he can read Sherlock's letter and not dissolve into a puddle of tears. He is finally thankful that his friend thought enough to share those words with John. He only wishes he could tell Sherlock that the meaning in those words are returned.

Greg's phone rings. "Excuse me." He wanders into the hallway.

"Did she fight it?" John asks.

"No, she was knackered. It was later than usual for her," Mary says.

Greg rushes back in. "I'm sorry John, Mary. I've got to run. Good thing I didn't finish that beer."

John stands. "Something wrong?"

Greg sighs. "It's not good." He pauses in the doorframe. "Can you come take a look? For old times sake?"

John looks to Mary who smiles. 

"Go on. You're chomping at the bit," she nods.

John grabs his coat and drops a kiss on Mary's forehead. The excitement coursing through his veins is laced with longing. He should be following a dark Belstaff instead of Greg's dingy trench coat. 

"You okay with this? Is this too hard?" Greg asks as John climbs into the passenger side.

"It's odd. Feels a bit off." He cracks a weak smile. "At least I get to ride in the police car."

Greg returns the tight smile and peels into the road. John watches London fly by and wonders if he should tell David about this.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are they here?" Sherlock doesn't look up from his file.
> 
> "I cancelled them. We have more important business," Mycroft says.

"Are they here?" Sherlock doesn't look up from his file.

"I cancelled them. We have more important business," Mycroft says.

Sherlock closes the file. "I didn't do anything."

"It's about what you are going to do."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"May I?" Mycroft gestures to the computer chair.

Sherlock shrugs. "It's your house."

"This is our home." Mycroft perches on the chair. 

Sherlock sighs. "Baker Street is home. This is a place I live."

Mycroft ignores Sherlock's sulk. "Greg has asked for my help."

"Greg?" Sherlock shakes his head.

"Inspector Lestrade."

"He calls himself Greg?" Sherlock frowns.

"It is his name, yes. Can I get to the reason I am here?" Mycroft lets out an exasperated breath.

"Fine." Sherlock stares into the fire, then turns to look at Mycroft. "Why are you on a first name basis with Lestrade?"

"We have worked together. Do you remember your little escape from the hospital?" Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

Sherlock watches Mycroft try to not fidget. If he felt his brother's pulse, it would be elevated. He notices Mycroft's pupils dilate. Curious.

"What's this about then?" Sherlock asks.

"I suppose you watch the news?" Mycroft smoothes a crease in his trousers.

"Sometimes."

"You may have seen reports of two young women found dead in different parts of London," Mycroft starts.

"There's been a third," Sherlock's eyes sparkle.

Mycroft's lip curls slightly. "You seemed thrilled."

"It's something to do." Sherlock's eyes light up. "You want me to consult."

"From the grave. I can provide you notes and photographs."

"You know I need to see the bodies. I can't solve a case on photos and Anderson's sloppy notes," Sherlock protests.

"How do we do that? Bring them here?" Mycroft scoffs. "We have to work with what we have."

Sherlock looks out the window. "I need to see them."

Mycroft crosses his arms in front of him. "How exactly are we going to do that?"

"I don't know. You're the smart, or so you say. Make it happen." Sherlock unfolds from the chair to walk to his wardrobe.

Mycroft regards him a few minutes. "I'll see what I can do."

Sherlock glances over his shoulder to see Mycroft leave. His hands shake as his fingers brush over the soft shirts that have collected dust in the months of disuse. He only dresses for meetings with his parents and appointments. He hasn't been in London since he was incarcerated for Magnussen's death. The thought of being in the same city as John is both exciting and terrifying. Knowing that around any corner could be his best friend. Maybe out for pints with Graham. Or walking the park with Willa. A longing that Sherlock has managed to suppress blossoms in his chest. To just breathe the same city air as HJohn.

And there is Mike - faceless Mike. They could be in the same room and not know it. Would Sherlock sense the connection if Mike was near? Would the hairs of his arm raise up if he heard a voice? Would something in his inflection or demeanor give him away?

For a moment, Sherlock feels unfaithful to his friendship with John. He shouldn't be thinking of Mike. However circumstances being as they are he can never be in John's life. If his blogger can move on, Sherlock ill have to do the same.

Mycroft reappears in his doorway. "A helicopter will be here in an hour.

"A helicopter? Is that necessary?" Sherlock muses.

"It is if we are to get you in and out of St. Bart's unnoticed. You realise this is taking a big risk. Even with a hood, someone could recognise you," Mycrof warns.

Sherlock whirls around. "Do you want my help? I have no problem playing with your photographs and idiotic reports. It will be similar to reading comic books. However if you want me to actually solve the case, you know what is required." Sherlock stalks over to Mycroft. "This must be at least a nine if you are desperate enough to involve me. Serial murder. Those are the best. Three deaths in under a month. Our person is bold and presumably unpredictable. And if you don't take me to London is certain to kill again."

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Always so dramatic. Fine. We'll go to London. No side trips, Sherlock."

"I have no intention of revealing myself to John." Sherlock returns to rummaging through his wardrobe. "I would, however, like to procure some real curry and a decent cappuccino."


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock dons a ballcap and hood as he's whisked from the helicopter to the awaiting black car. His heart races as the sleek car cuts through the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading. And to everyone who comments or enjoys discussion, thank you very much. 
> 
> I am looking for some fanart - perhaps an artist rendition of Sherlock after the fire. Just a thought. 
> 
> Thanks again!

Sherlock dons a ballcap and hood as he's whisked from the helicopter to the awaiting black car. His heart races as the sleek car cuts through the city.

"You miss her, don't you?" Mycroft asks quietly.

"Her? That's a rather affectionate term for a city, brother." He keeps his eyes on the store fronts passing by.

Mycroft looks out the opposite window. They pull up to the service entrance of St. Bart's; and Mycroft's phone buzzes. 

"Are we secure?" he asks.

The doors open and two men in dark suits approach the car. Sherlock can see Anthea lingering by the door.

"Put your hood up," Mycroft instructs as he opens the door.

The two men flank Sherlock on either side. Mycroft is directly behind them. Once inside, Sherlock is guided to a desolate laundry room. Anthea hands him a set of sea green scrubs and a long white lab coat.

"Your mask," Mycroft says.

"It wouldn't be odd for a doctor to walk around with a mask?" Sherlock inquires.

"Put the mask on," Mycroft orders.

Like a petulant child, Sherlock rolls his eyes but does put on the mask. Anthea puts a surgical cap on his head.

He thinks this is stupid. True, no one would recognise him but it doesn't make him look any less innocuous.

"Doctor, you are on your way surgery and cannot be interrupted." Mycroft hands him some latex gloves.

"General surgery is three floors up," Sherlock deadpans.

"You raise less suspicion in this than if you strode around in a dark hood," Mycroft says pointedly.

"Fine." Sherlock snaps the gloves on. The two suited agents appear in surgical clothes. "This is ridiculous."

Mycroft shrugs. "Fine. Let's go home."

"I did not say I won't play your dress up game. I am merely offering commentary." He slips on the lab coat.

Mycroft hands him wire frame glasses. "To complete your transformation."

"Let's get this over with," Sherlock snaps.

The excitement of hiding in plain sight has worn thin quickly. He's certain Mycroft has assured that no one is in the morgue at this hour.  
Flanked by his two assistants, Sherlock walks the familiar halls of St. Bart's. Deep in the bowels of the hospital, it is desolate. They pass an old woman pushing a food cart towards the kitchen. Down a different hall, they see an orderly hauling laundry. He doesn't even glance up at the trio.

One assistant knocks on the morgue's door. Another similarly dressed man opens the door. Words are muttered, some kind of password; and Sherlock is ushered in.

One assistant stands outside while the other guards the door from inside.

"Sir," the third man approaches, "this way."

Sherlock walks over to table where a young blonde woman lies. He glances up at the man standing across from him.

"Are you a doctor?" He asks.

"Yes sir."

"Do you know who I am?" Sherlock asks.

"I'm not to speak of this if I want my tax troubles disappear," the man answers with a tight voice.

Sherlock removes the mask and cap. "I should have figured Mycroft was not above bribery. Let's begin then."


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John can't remember the last time he was in St. Bart's.

John can't remember the last time he was in St. Bart's. Nothing has changed; still musty and cold. Coming here always makes his stomach drop like a stone. The fall. The shooting. Sherlock's third brush with death after revealing Mary. They nearly blot out the nights he spent with Sherlock in the lab, pouring over slides and data; side by side. So much bloody personal history in one building.

"Was it strange tonight?" Greg asks.

John offers a weak smile. "A bit. There was no one to handle."

"Anderson has been better," Greg smirks. "It was good to have you."

"I liked being included... Even if, you know." His voice catches.

Greg clears his throat and nods. "Right. Even still, I had forgotten how much he rubbed off on you."

"Sorry?" John cocks his head.

"Your deductive skills have sharpened. Much better than those I have in the department. I had thought it was just you that rubbed off on him." Greg searches his pockets.

"Me?" 

Greg pulls out a packet of gum. John recognises it as nicotine gum. He recalls the day Sherlock attempted both nicotine gum and patches. He wound up attached to an EKG machine for hours.

"He was always a miserable bastard, but you managed to make him less bastard-like." Greg pops two pieces in his mouth. John considers scolding him, but it's been a long evening. 

John shrugs. "I guess so."

"You could manage him better than anyone. I think Mycroft was jealous."

"Mycroft?" It is odd that Greg mentions his name so casually.

"Long before you, I was tapped to keep the bastard clean," Greg says. "It takes a village to raise a Sherlock."

John laughs. "Yes it does. Add a criminal web and homeless network."

Greg chuckles. "He would have loved this."

"Serial murders were his favourite." John smiles.

"What do you reckon he'd rate this one?" Greg asks.

"At least a nine based on the blood loss. I think he'd appreciate the blood letting." John shakes his head. "The odd thing, the second victim looked vaguely familiar. Like maybe I'd seen her in a shop or the Tube."

"Was she a patient maybe?"

"No. She wasn't that familiar. I might not remember names but I do remember if I've examined someone." John rubs his chin.

"And the third victim?" Greg jots down a note.

"The blonde? I don't think so." John shrugs. "It could be one of those days where everyone looks familiar, you know?"

Greg nods. "It's late. I should let you get home."

John looks hesitant. 

"Maybe a coffee? I know I'm still buzzing." Greg suggests.

"How about a few pints? Both girls will be asleep." John claps Greg on the back. "I need to unwind before I get home."


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock stills when he hears voices echo down the hall.

Sherlock stills when he hears voices echo down the hall. Dr. Agent number one nods to keep going. Sherlock and Dr. Not-Watson keep going. Sherlock feels the empty hole of his doctor when he needs to repeat himself consistently. John knew what to anticipate and always asked the right questions to help Sherlock's deductions along. This is slow and almost painful. Yet certainly more exciting than waiting for Mike to tuck in his beard of wife to come chat with him.

The case itself is interesting enough. Three victims killed in different ways. One was strangled. The second died from blunt force trauma. The third was suffocated. In all three cases, they were drained of their blood at three major arteries immediately after death. That alone would make an awful mess. These women were moved after exsanguination. Sherlock wonders the proximity of place of death relative to the place the hollow corpse was dumped. And what did anyone want with that much blood? Once the heart stops, the blood vessels deteriorate quickly.

Sherlock opens the mouth of the second victim.

"What are you looking for?" Dr. Not-Watson asks.

"A reason. Something this fantastic usually wants a response." Sherlock peers closer. "Can you hand me the tweezers?"

"Find something?"

"Maybe?" Sherlock pulls out a rolled up paper from deep inside the victim's nasal cavity. Carefully he unrolls it to reveal a bank note.

"Money?" Dr. Not-Watson frowns.

"We need to go back to the third victim." Sherlock straightens.

"Did you hear that?"

The agent motions for Sherlock to hide under Molly's desk. Dr. Not-Watson covers the victim and begins to 'clean up' as if he's just finished. There is a tentative pull on the doors. Sherlock holds his breath. This was a stupid risk. If anyone recognises him, he is well and truly fucked. How can he explain to his friends, to John that it was a poorly made decision while distraught and drugged? Even though true, he couldn't ask anyone to believe it.

There is a firmer tug. The agent silently orders Sherlock to remain down. The voices pick up their conversation.

It is a sharp blow to Sherlock's gut when he hears John's muffled voice. What is he doing here? Sherlock pokes his head from under the desk to listen closer. Who is he with? Then he hears Lestrade's chuckle. So, they still go out to crime scenes, together. Sherlock's stomach twists in a tight intricate knot. It appears that he is not missed or needed. Clearly, Lestrade must think someone has been aiding their recent incompetency.  
He thinks of the last three unsolved cases he brought to Mycroft. How exactly does Graham suppose they miraculously were solved?

Visions of Lestrade and John standing shoulder to shoulder over a dead boy flood all the halls of his mind. Do they even give him a passing thought? Who calls who amazing? John's muffled laugh fills the cracks in the door jamb. It's both a heavenly chorus and like nails on a blackboard. It's like screeching brakes on everything Sherlock thought about his friendship with John. Of course his blogger doesn't miss him. He has a loving wife, an adorable offspring and chuckling friends. If he were to come back from the dead, Sherlock would only complicate lives. Everyone would hate him.

Sherlock is itching to see John, though. Are there dark circles under his eyes? Has his limp returned? Is he still the most gorgeous creature Sherlock has ever seen?

The voices grow more distant. Sherlock feels John slipping away. What can he do? Hop out from under Molly's desk and profess his love? He couldn't do it the last time when John didn't have a wife and baby- and Sherlock wasn't a twisted mess of destroyed skin.

The agent motions the all clear.

"Do you want to continue?" Dr. Not-Watson asks.

At that particular second, Sherlock does not. He wants to crawl home and find a syringe filled with anything that will take the emptiness away - permanently. He stares at the covered body of victim number three. Although, he hates leaving an unsolved mystery.

His phone buzzes. He expects it is Mycroft asking if he's done.

Mike: will you be on later? I could use a chat

There is one person that needs him. He doesn't care what Sherlock looks like - it's likely they will never meet. Right now, they are filling the holes left by other people.

David: yes. I'm in the middle of something now, but will message when I'm done

Mike: grand. Later

Sherlock pockets his phone. With renewed purpose, he turns to the doctor. "Can you bring me the second victim?" Pause. "And what's your name?"


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is drunk. A pint turns into four when he goes out with Greg.

John is drunk. A pint turns into four when he goes out with Greg. Post crime scene was always his favourite with Sherlock. They would return from a crime scene thrumming with energy. John would make tea while Sherlock paced, played the violin or sat in repose as he tore around in his mind palace. John is not looking forward to going home to stare at bad telly. So when a pint turns to four, he doesn't notice or care. Never mind that the only food he has has in twelve hours was curry chips he shared with Greg.

Now he is sat on his sofa with bad telly, a glass of water and his laptop. The images on the screen are blurry and he knows tomorrow; or later today will be awful. His eyes close as he waits for David. Just a few minutes.

John's eyes pop open as he hears the chime.

David: are you still awake? I was later than expected

Mike: yea, I'm hear

David: apologies. Sounds like you had a bad night?

Mike: mixed. Went out with old friends and got me thinking

David: must be a night for lingering on the past

Mike: where were u

David: at my old firm helping with a case

Mike: u went out? That's amazing!

David: I wouldn't hand me a medal just yet. It was night and only some custodial people and clerks were there. It was easy to breeze in and out

Mike: but u left you're house

David: you are drunk

Mike: maybe just a little

Mike: okay a lot

David: I'm on my second bottle of wine.

Mike: party!

David: what precipitated your descent into midweek debauchery?

Mike: was out with friends and it felt funny without him. Like I was cheating

David: you said that you two never...

John considers sharing the note.

Mike: no, never. I just really missed him

Mike: how was you're night? 2 bottles of wine doesn't sound good

David: just discovered that some of my partners at the firm have moved on

Mike: different jobs?

David: something like that. I felt a bit....abandoned

Mike: you know what? I'm tired of the past. Tired of thinking of stuff I should've done. Things that won't happen

David: the past is the black hole; not grief

Mike: exactly! Let's drink to the future my friend

David: what are you drinking now?

Mike: water only water

David: I'll take a sip of wine for you then

Mike: thanks mate

David: we are...mates?

Mike: right now, you are my best

John tucks Sherlock's letter away. It is the past, and it's time to move forward.

David: I feel likewise. I have to admit that I look forward to talking with you

John's cheeks warm. He can't help but smile.

Mike: me too. So were you in London

At least 45 seconds pass.

David: I'm staying with family outside of London for tonight. I go back tomorrow

Mike: I wish I knew you were in town! I would have loved to meet you

David: I'm not sure I'm ready

David: or if I'll ever be ready

Mike: you are so much more than a face, David

There is no response. John wonders if he's pushed too hard. He wishes he could convince David he's more than a scarred man. No matter if his friends and family have spurned him because he made an honest mistake.

Mike: I'm sorry if I upset you

John feels sobriety creep in under the pleasant buzz.

David: it's fine. I just haven't been on the receiving end of kindness in a very long time

Mike: can I ask a personal question?

David: if I am allowed to ask you one

John tenses for a moment. What could it hurt to open himself up a bit? It's what Ella would want, right?

Mike: deal. Okay, you can tell me to sod off but, you mentioned a cigarette started the fire. Did anyone else die?

David: why do you ask that?

John thinks about how he wants to phrase his next words.

Mike: because you talk about friends deserting you. It can't be just because you are burned. People can't be that shallow

David: they can, and they are. I didn't have many friends to start - just a few very close ones. They just moved on. I'm several hours away making a visit difficult. I was in pain for many months and didn't want to see anyone. I saw the pity in the faces of my caregivers, the nurses who bathed me. The last thing I wanted was to see it in people who depended on me. And then they moved on with their lives as people do.

Mike: did other people get hurt or die in the fire?

John gnaws nervously on the pad of his thumb.

David: no, but lives were destroyed nonetheless

John sighs. Poor David carries so much guilt and self-doubt. Is it possible that he's the only person that offers him anything positive? Speaking of guilt, it begins to eat at John. This wounded man is opening himself up to 'Mike' who is more or less fiction.

David: my turn. You speak fondly of this male friend. Were your thoughts sexual at any point?

Suddenly, John is glad to hide behind Mike. David seems pretty smart and having worked in law might be familiar with Sherlock. It's a stretch that he would put it all together, but it would be devastating to John if David did.

Mike: I'm glad I'm still buzzing

David: that was too personal. I'm sorry

Mike: no, it's fine. I asked you if killed someone. That's pretty personal.

John takes a deep breath.

Mike: I tried not to when he was alive. I was with my wife and I never thought he felt the same.

David: have you ever had a homosexual experience?

John swallows roughly. His sitting room feels too warm.

Mike: not with another person...really

David: can you have one by yourself?

Mike: in school, there was one time when a mate and wanked off to see who came the quickest. Thinking back on it now, we probably wanted to try more.

David: did see your friend touch himself excite you?

John's breath hitches.

Mike: yes. 

David: what did you think about?  
John quickly pours himself a scotch. It's cheap but he needs it for this conversation. He sees David has responded.

David: I'm sorry if that was out of line

Mike: I was pouring a drink

David: is that a good idea?

Mike: probably not but I want to talk about this.

David: fine. Did you think about him?

John's cock twitches.

Mike: I did. I pictured him on his knees and my hand was his mouth

David: did you ever do it again?

Mike: we were almost discovered. That ended that

David: was that the only time?

John wants to tell him about the one time in Afghanistan when he let Bill Murray jerk him off. They drank Bill's secret stash of forbidden vodka. After talking about how long it had been since they each had had sex, Bill rubbed the bulge in Jon's pants. In a drunken haze, he let Bill take him out and got him off in record time. John hated to admit he enjoyed the rough texture of Bill's skin, the thickness of his fingers compared to a girlfriend's. 

Mike: once during a drunken camping trip with some mates

Again, John feels bad for not being completely honest.

David: and you don't identify with being homosexual?

Mike: no, and was happy to sleep with women. Until I met him

David: does he have a name?

Mike: I'd rather not say.

David: okay. But you were attracted to him

Mike: from the first meeting but he wasn't gay

David: he told you that?

John remembers the first night at Angelo's. John fumbled over his words and Sherlock looked annoyed. Being as gorgeous as he was, Sherlock must have been propositioned often by both sexes. He thinks of Irene, how affected Sherlock had been with her in his life. Months after Sherlock returned, he told John how he saved her life a second time. They had gone on the run together for a week, until he said goodbye to her for a fourth time. Then there was Janine. Yes, he proposed to get close to Magnussen, but they never discussed how close. Sherlock had told him that the articles were rubbish, but Janine gave an awful lot of detail to their trysts.

No, it wasn't until John read Sherlock's final letter did he understand that Sherlock might at least have been bisexual. Or perhaps he struggled with his identity like John did until the bitter end.

Mike: yes, and he was engaged to another woman

David: it's hard to suffer unrequited love

Mike: have you?

David: haven't we all?

Mike: I guess so

David: did you think about him when you were with anyone else?

John takes a large gulp of his drink.

Mike: my turn. What about you? Who do you think about?

David: lately, you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you are enjoying this as much as I am enjoying writing. I am still looking for someone who does fan art.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John coughs on his drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can thank Irene for me posting this 12 hours earlier than planned. :)

John coughs on his drink. His cock throbs dully. It's been a few days since he's even wanked, so it doesn't take much to excite him.

Mike: you don't know what I look like

David: you told me that I'm not just a face. Neither are you.

Mike: are you gay or bi?

David: I'm homosexual. I have no interest in women

Mike: did you have a boyfriend after your accident?

David: he wasn't a boyfriend, but he still moved on with his life. I thought we weren't going to talk about the past

Mike: my turn to ask a question

David: didn't you just ask one?

John finishes his drink. He needs something, connection - something tactile and physical. He wants to be taken apart and pushed roughly. He wants strong hands on his hips.

Mike: I guess it's your question

David: when was the last time you had sex?

John pours another drink. He had thought their chat would be about favourite movies or books.

Mike: 3 weeks ago. You?

David: it's been several years

Mike: Christ! Years???

David: yes, years. I did mention I was not very social. I did not go to establishments where men of my ilk meet. It left me with very limited options.

Mike: I feel crazy with 3 weeks

David: is your wife not interested?

Mike: no, she is....

David: it's you. You've had an awakening lately and she is not what you desire

John's cock swells in his jeans.

Mike: she's lovely and fine

David: you want to know what a man feels like. Hard muscles and hairy chest. Have you ever wanted to taste a man?

John let's out a shaky breath.

Mike: sometimes

David: would it be salty? How does it differ from a woman? The feel of smooth flesh between your lips, nudging your soft pallet. Strong fingers in your hair

John palms his erection. It feels like he hasn't been this hard in a long time. He licks his lips.

Mike: is that what you picture? Am I a faceless stranger in front of you

David: no, I'm usually kneeling before you

"Oh god," John whispers. He listen for any movement upstairs, a whimper or floorboard creak.

Mike: and?

David: I've no gag reflex. As I take you deep, I touch you

John unzips his jeans. He has envisions a man resembling Sherlock kneeling before him. 

Mike: what colour are your eyes?

David: are you picturing me?

Mike: I'm trying to

David: blue, and they are staring up at you as my fingers reach under and breach you

John slips his hand under his navy blue pants. He is hard and hot in his hand.

Mike: what else do you think about

David: me on all fours with you behind me. Strong hands leaving marks on my hips

John begins to stroke. He remembers how tight Sherlock's arse was in those tailored trousers. Maybe David's like that.

Mike: are you....

David: as a rock. It's been so long since...I'm sorry

Mike: don't. I am too. I feel high or something because I've never met you but I want what you describe

David: you want to take me, Mike?

John's grip tightens in his cock. He imagines David is tight.

Mike: so much it hurts. How do you want it? Gentle?

David: no, I'd want to fuck me so hard I feel you for a week

"Shit," John hisses.

Mike: what are you doing right now?

David: are you touching yourself thinking of shagging me?

Mike: maybe

David: because I am. And I'm close so unbelievably close

John picks up the pace. He wants to share this with David. He pushes his pants down to free his cock. If Mary comes downstairs now, he's caught but he doesn't care.

Mike: me too

David: you would feel me pushing back, demanding more, faster, harder. Would you slide your hand around me? Would you bring me to orgasm while you are buried inside me?

"Oh Sher....David," John gasps as he comes on his stomach.

Mike: yes, anything you want

David: Jesus Mike

No one types for at least a minute. John quickly cleans himself up and does up his jeans.

David: I.....I'm a bit ashamed I just did that

Mike: I did too. It was...

John thinks how to describe it. He has just has online sex with a man he's never met but feels more intimate with than anyone in his life right now.

David: yes?

Mike: incredible. Amazing.

David: I feel likewise. I was concerned that you would sign off when I said I thought about you

Mike: it was the nicest thing I've heard in a long time

David: I haven't felt this connected in a long time

Mike: I kinda wish you were here

David: are you still drinking?

Mike: no, but some cheap scotch helped me lose inhibitions. Your words helped too

David: I should let you get to sleep

John looks at his watch. Despite having the day off, Willa will be awake in a mere three hours.

Mike: guess I should. I meant it when I said I wish your were here

David: I wish I was with you as well. Talk later?

Mike: definitely. Goodnight David

David: goodnight Mike

John closes the laptop. The ceiling above his head rotates. The beers and scotch collide. He imagines burying his nose in the musty scent of a man's shoulder. The last thing he wants to do is sleep beside Mary's soft form.

He hauls himself off the sofa to clean up the evidence of his late night drinking and online debauchery. Pouring himself another glass of water, the reality of what happened sets in. He has just cheated on Mary with a faceless man. He feels guilty for using an edited version of Sherlock for David - likes his been unfaithful to two people at once. The beer hangover begins to take hold with sour breath and a headache. The scotch is fighting within him as he feels more inebriated with each step. After the evidence is cleared, John staggers back to the sofa in a heap. A drunken slumber overtakes him like a blanket being pulled to his neck. His last thought is of blue eyes watching him.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to concentrate on the pieces of paper in front of him. It's not as if they are unimportant.

Sherlock tries to concentrate on the pieces of paper in front of him. It's not as if they are unimportant. When Sherlock regained focus after his near brush with John, he and Dr. Ian discovered another message in second victim's nasal passage - a used tea bag. For a moment, Sherlock had forgotten everything but the case. Excitedly he asked to see the first victim only to be disappointed to find the body had already been cremated.   
Sherlock asks Mycroft for the coroner's report. It's highly doubtful that the dim coroner had the insight to investigate any of the victim's orifices. He should be anxiously waiting for that instead of a message from Mike.

Sherlock signs onto the site as soon as he wakes early the following afternoon. 

It had been months since he has touched himself. Years since anyone but an image aided his masturbation. Though he didn't know what Mike looked like, last night felt intimate. Judging from the amount of time it took Mike to respond, Sherlock assesses that he was also engaged in the act. He meant what he had said - Sherlock wished that he could curl around this man and sleep. Mike knew about his scars. Perhaps he wouldn't care about the knotted skin splashed across his body. 

Sherlock shakes his head. He has to be realistic. Mike is a married man who is mourning his best friend whom he loves. Sherlock was a convenient partner last night - nothing more.

Yet as he works, he keeps the browser open. Periodically he pokes into the Black Hole to see if 221 is there. Around dinner time, he searches the other chat rooms. The emptiness starts as a pin hole. As hours pass, it opens wider until it feels like the whole world could slip inside. Sherlock glances at his phone. Only an unchecked message from Mycroft hangs on the home screen.

As the clock strikes ten, Sherlock's skin prickles. It's now when Mike is available to talk. Sherlock waits for hours for a chime that never comes.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The following morning, Sherlock is greeted by Mycroft and a file.

The following morning, Sherlock is greeted by Mycroft and a file.

"The first coroner's report," he announced.

Sherlock sits up and scratches his head. "Did you read it?"

Mycroft drops it on the bed. "As you presumed, he did not look as thoroughly as you."

Scowling, he rubs his eyes. "There goes that clue. Now we wait."

"You seem certain there will be another," Mycroft sniffs.

"Good God, your brain has softened. Aren't you required to use it when running the country?" He hauls himself from the bed to pull on his camel dressing gown. "They left a note. There is a game being played. I haven't figured out the audience. The police? Someone they knew? But mark my words, there will be more."

Mycroft nods slowly. "I have arranged for your ride home once it is dark, like you requested."

"Home," Sherlock scoffs. "Fine. I should get back to work."

Mycroft watches as Sherlock shuffles into the en suite bathroom. "I will have Gerta bring your breakfast?"

"I'm not hungry. Just have coffee ready in the study." Sherlock calls.

"Please?" Mycroft suggests.

Sherlock pokes his head around the door. "Please what?"

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Manners, brother mine," he says as he walks away.

Sherlock doesn't feel like being nice. He had waited for Mike all night and nothing.

He admonishes himself for being open in the smallest of ways with Mike. For all he knew, this 'Mike' is planking prepubescent twat that got a mighty chuckle out of their chat. 

But the logical side of Sherlock knows a teenager would never spend months cultivating a relationship for one night's joke. 

They are two, maybe three possibilities.

1\. Deep regret for a variety of reasons. Not comfortable with burgeoning homosexuality. Guilt for infidelity on spouse and old friend. Discovered by the wife.

2\. Busy with work and family. Less likely scenario.

3\. Uncertain of Sherlock's emotions and is waiting on Sherlock for the first contact.

Sherlock checks throughout the day. He leaves the chat open. He leaves the chat room open, which only forces him to get involved with others.

When the sun sets, Sherlock slips into a black sedan with heavily tinted windows. He pulls his hood up and attempts to sleep. He thinks of Mike sitting at dinner with his family and John running the streets of London with Lestrade. It's impossible to not feel abandoned and betrayed. He is foolish for thinking he can have a future.

Sherlock checks his phone once more before crawling under the sheets.


	32. Chapter 32

Sherlock stays in bed for 48 hours.


	33. Chapter 33

User 129 requests permission to chat - accept or deny?


	34. Chapter 34

User 129 has entered room.

User 129 has left room.


	35. Chapter 35

David: hello Mike. It's been a week since you've been on the site. I haven't heard from you since that night. I hope you are well.


	36. Chapter 36

Five minutes later.

David: I hope that I didn't upset you. I should have never asked those questions. Of course they made you uncomfortable. I knew you were altered and I apologise if I took advantage of that


	37. Chapter 37

One hour later.

David: additionally I am sorry if you were waiting for me to reach out to you. I was giving you space.


	38. Chapter 38

Ten minutes later.

David: I hope you know that I would never ask anything of you beyond friendship. I immensely enjoy your company and our conversations- all of them


	39. Chapter 39

Fifteen minutes later.

David: I miss you, friend. Please allow me to say a proper goodbye. I never had the opportunity to say goodbye to him. Please grant me this one thing.


	40. Chapter 40

"Sherlock." Mycroft stands at the foot of the bed. "There's been another."

"See? I told you." His voice is muffled by the pillow.

"Is that all you have to say?" Mycroft asks.

Sherlock shrugs.

"I thought you'd be brimming with joy." 

"Seems inappropriate. There's a person dead," Sherlock mumbles.

"Is this about your near run-in with John Watson?" Mycroft opens the heavy drapes to flood the room with grey light.

Sherlock groans and turns his head away. How can he tell Mycroft it's not just John? The glimmer of hope he's been grasping has extinguished.

"What do you want?" Sherlock growls.

"I thought you would want to be involved. Maybe see the body."

"Are you transporting the body here? Are we going to fly me to London again?" He is not certain he wants to return there.

"We might want to think about moving closer. Not in London but just outside," Mycroft suggests. "Until the case is solved."

It would give Sherlock something to do instead of staring at the ceiling and cursing his phone's silence. Perhaps while at the hospital he can get his hands on something more powerful than vodka - anything to numb the nights.

"You can arrange all that?" Sherlock pushes the covers off his face.

"I can." Mycroft turns to leave. "Just say the word."


	41. Chapter 41

Mike: David, I am so sorry. If I'm being honest, I was a little confused that night. I did take a day to process things. But then the baby got sick with the flu, and I followed. I've been in bed with a fever for days. I'm so so sorry. I never meant to leave you thinking you are alone. You aren't.


	42. Chapter 42

Mike: David, I will assume that you've deleted your account or are just still too angry. I would like a chance to wish you well in life. I will miss you, probably more than I should

John tosses his phone on this desk. He erupts into a fit of wet coughing that cause his shoulders to ache. He grabs a handful to tissue to blow his nose. Technically, he can't see patients like this, but he had to get out of the house. Both Willa and Mary are driving him crazy.

Sarah tells him he can do chart work for the next two days. He's actually thankful, which prompts Sarah to take his temperature. At least John has peace in his office with his hot mug of tea. He wears the heaviest jumper he owns and a scarf to warm his tired bones.

He has been staring at the same file for an hour. His body is telling him to go home and crawl into bed. He knows Mary will thrust Willa into his arms the moment he walks in the door. Normally he would love to cuddle her, but he's struggling this week.

John glances at his phone. Nothing.

He has mucked this up beyond all reason. He woke that next morning with sandpaper for a tongue and and anvil for a head. He was conflicted by the entire episode. He was cheating on both Mary and Sherlock's memory. He felt like he didn't deserve the words in Sherlock's letter. What scared him most was how much he wanted to touch David. He longed for David to be real and with him. All the things he said to John, he desperately wanted to know what it felt like. How did David taste? He's never kissed a man. Would it be different? The thought of stubble scraping his chin or neck excites him more than Mary parading around naked.

But is he using David as a substitute for Sherlock? The scarred man doesn't need that. He's had people turn away from him since his accident.   
When John's fever broke, he decided to dedicate himself to whatever kind of relationship David wanted - friends or something different. His heart crumbled when he saw all the messages from a despondent David. He cursed himself for being so insensitive and selfish.

John's phone chimes.

David: I thought you went away

John knocks his phone off his desk in an attempt to grab it.

"Shit...shit...shit," he murmurs. "Please do not be smashed."

He sighs in relief - the phone is fine.

Mike: no, I was just very sick. I'm so sorry that I hurt you

David: did you mean what you said?

Mike: which part? I did a fair amount of grovelling

David: that I'm not alone

Mike: never. I was confused and I still don't have it all sorted, but I want us to be whatever we're meant to be.

David: meant to be?

Mike: I know you aren't ready to seen, and you may never. That's okay. I'll be here as long as you want. If you want to meet or you just want us to be here

John stares at his phone for one minute and forty-five seconds. Maybe he's said too much and scared David away.

David: Mike, are you - a married man - asking me to be your internet boy toy?

John erupts into a coughing fit of laughter. His throat burns, his eyes water but he's laughing harder than he has in months. Despite everything, David still have a sense of humour.

Mike: I'm not sure what we are. Last week, it was incredible. I've been touched by men, but that was more intimate than I've been with anyone in a long time. My wife included. I don't know that means, but I like having you in my life.

David: the feeling is mutual. Perhaps one day, we could meet. I'm not ready just yet

Mike: that's okay. For now, this is probably best.

David: so....friends?

Mike: I wouldn't mind if our conversations get intimate from time to time

David: I was really counting on that detail of our friendship to flourish

John squirms in his seat.

Mike: I can't right now. I'm at work

David: and you're recovering from influenza. The next time I penetrate your mind, I want you ready, willing and healthy

John groans. He hopes to one day hear this man say such things to him. Maybe even show him....

David: one day, I do want you to be at your desk picturing me bent over it

John sneezes and his nose explodes all over his hands.

Mike: Christ, David

David: sorry. I'll save that for another night

John squeezes sanitiser onto his hands.

David: in the interest of keeping this work safe, how do you take your tea?

Mike: what?

David: if we should ever meet, I'd like to be able to make you tea

John smiles.

Mike: milk and one sugar


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock walks into the study. As expected, Mycroft is signing very important documents behind a large cherry desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I am usually better at updating this every day or nearly every day. I am trying to write as fast as I can AND keep up to date on my other fics. Thank you for still reading. I hope I haven't put too many of you off. At the heart of it, I still think I have a good story to tell so I hope you stick with it. I will work hard to try to not let anyone down. 
> 
> Thanks you.

Sherlock walks into the study. As expected, Mycroft is signing very important documents behind a large cherry desk.

"Yes Sherlock," he says wearily.

"Let's go to London. Until the case is over at least." Sherlock turns to leave.

"What has changed your mind?" Mycroft looks up.

"I'm over my sulk and prepared to not be bored. I can't shoot holes in walls here because I have no access to guns." He shrugs casually.

"I thought it best while you are clinically depressed."

"Your expert's assertion not mine. How soon do we leave?" he asks.

"Tomorrow night. I will bring you to the morgue and have Anthea set up your things in the house in Cambridge." Mycroft nods.

It's not London, but Sherlock isn't ready to be that close. He's trying to rebuild his life and he can't begin that process so close to John.  
He feels like he's floating since he chatted with Mike. He's cautiously optimistic about their friendship. He hopes that Mike doesn't change his mind again. There are many external factors working against Sherlock - wife, Mike's confusion. Sherlock knows the odds are not in his favour.

For tonight though, he has hope. He returns to his room to begin packing his things. While opening cupboards, he finds a dear old friend. Sherlock hasn't thought about it months. His phone buzzes in this pocket.

Mike: I'm home now. I've got eat dinner and put the baby to bed. Chat later?

Sherlock's heart swells.

David: of course. I'm available anytime

Mike: great. I should be free at 10:30

David: see you then

Sherlock lifts the violin out of the case. His fingers caress the wood like a long lost lover. With a deep breath, he tucks it under his chin. He crooks his elbow to bring the bow to the strings. The scars on his left arm stretch and pull. The skin is tight as he drags the bow across to create an terrible screech. Due to months of disuse, the instrument is completely out of tune. Sherlock cannot remember the last time he played. It was before Christmas; and before John went back to Mary. They were in their sitting room with Christmas lights twinkling when Sherlock had an overwhelming feeling of peace. With John reading in his chair like so many nights before the fall, it was home. He played Winter from Vivaldi's Four Seasons - one of John's favourites.

Sherlock affectionately tunes his violin tobe certain that it also makes the journey to Cambridge.


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock whisks into the morgue at two in the morning, and pulls the hood from his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ThanK you for everyone that stops by to read this. It's been a great learning experience and has been an internal struggle at times. I guess that's what it is about. If I've lost people along the way, I hope they give it another chance.
> 
> If anyone knows an artist that takes commissions for artwork, I would love to add some to this fic to help bring it more to life.
> 
> Again, than you to everyone that has left feedback.

Sherlock whisks into the morgue at two in the morning, and pulls the hood from his head. 

"Dr. Ian."

"Mr. Holmes. I've already prepared the body," the doctor says.

"I'm sure I'm not the first one at it," Sherlock sighs.

"No. She has been processed this afternoon. The report says there was nothing in the nasal cavity."

Sherlock snorts. "Is that the only place they checked?"

Dr. Ian flips through the report. "The mouth, they checked the mouth."

Sherlock pulls on the latex gloves with a resounding snap. He produces a small flashlight from his pocket. "We shall see about that."

With the flashlight clasped between his teeth, Sherlock pries the victim's mouth open. As he suspects, nothing in the mouth - however his fingers push past the uvula. Something stops their path down the throat.

"Clamp," he demands.

Dr. Ian scrambles to the instrument tray. 

Carefully, Sherlock grasps the obstruction and removes it from the throat.

"What is that?" The doctor frowns.

Sherlock gives the small circular item a sniff. "A chlorine tablet? I will need to test it to see its intended use."

"Right now?" Dr. Ian asks, his pallid complexion blanches further. 

Sherlock cocks his head. "Of course. There are four dead women."

He drops the tab into a plastic bag then slips it in his coat pocket. 

"Can you take that?"

"It's not official evidence yet, doctor," Sherlock smirks. "It's best I do this at home and not keep you here all night. You have a teething toddler that still refuses to sleep through the night."

Dr. Ian chuckles. "Mr. Holmes said you were good."

"I am a little out of practice. I'm not around many new people lately." Sherlock misses human interaction for his general disdain for most people. He turns to Carter, part of the new security detail. "I'm ready to go home. Make sure you bring the files."

With a quick nod, the burly man sends for the car.

Dr. Ian slips on his coat wearily. "As much as I enjoy working with you, I hope to not do it again."

"Oh you will, doctor. It will be in roughly five days - around the time he runs out of blood." Sherlock loops the scarf around his throat. The cashmere is scratchy against the scarred skin along his neck.

"How do you know it's a man?"

"The last one he strangled he used a cloth, most likely made of fine material - wool blend, perhaps even cashmere. He's used blunt force trauma. Despite taking the blood, he's doesn't want to get his hands dirty. This one gave him some fight." Sherlock examines the hands. "This victim was strangled by a man with large hands. Something happened with this one. See the light bruising?"

"Shouldn't there be skin under her nails? She'd use everything she had to get away," Dr. Ian says.

Sherlock grins. "Now you're asking the right questions. Her hands were free for a time, long enough to fight back. Would you consider it cold enough for gloves?"

"It was cold two days ago. I had to wear a warmer coat." Dr. Ian yawns.

"I've kept you long enough. Until we meet again." Sherlock extends his hand.

"Until then." With a nod, Dr. Ian is gone.

"The car is here," Carter announces.

"Do you need me to carry the files for you?" 

Sherlock tucks them under his arm and pulls the hood over his head. "I'm fine. Are we clear?"

Carter ducks his head into the hallway, and receives a thumbs up. "Yessir."

Sherlock huffs as he passes. "Wish you wouldn't call me that."

"I've been instructed to not use names, sir," Carter answers.

As usual, a black car with black windows waits for him. Carter opens the door for Sherlock, muttering into a mouthpiece when he's safely inside the car. 

"Anthea. I didn't think you worked this late." Sherlock settles the files in his lap. "Is this necessary?"

"Your brother is in a meeting." She pockets her phone.

Sherlock lets out a laugh. "Whoever could he be meeting in a car across from John Watson's flat?" 

Anthea raised her eyebrows. 

"Please. Give me some credit." Knowing Mycroft, he wants to be absolutely certain that there would be know chance encounter with the good doctor this time. 

Sherlock pulls a small paperback from his pocket.

"Introduction to Football?" Anthea's tone clearly mocks.

"Broadening my horizons," he sighs as he opens to a dog-eared page.

"Guess so." She taps away on her phone.

Sherlock has no doubt that she's informing Mycroft of his current reading material.


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After announcing his lunch, John locks the door to his office. He smooths down his shirt before he slips behind his desk. His thumb slides over his phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who takes the time to read this and to those who follow its progress. It really means the word to me. 
> 
> Thank you to those who have offered their help for a second set of eyes, and Megabat for working on some art for this story.

After announcing his lunch, John locks the door to his office. He smooths down his shirt before he slips behind his desk. His thumb slides over his phone.

Mike: I'm here

David: where is here?

John looks around his small office. A nurse wouldn't have an office to themselves. 

Mike: nurses lounge, at the report desk

David: are you alone?

Mike: yes, I locked the door

David: will you be interrupted?

Mike: I hope not. I told everyone I needed to concentrate.

David: are you sure you want this?

John licks his dry lips.

Mike: the thought got me through an interminable dinner party last night

Sherlock smiles.

David: dinner party? We'll save that one for another time

Mike: I like your imagination. Where are you?

Sherlock turns his head to gaze out the floor to ceiling windows of his new room. While he misses the personal fireplace, he enjoys the smaller spaces of the Holmes' Cambridge house. He can hear the matronly housekeeper singing downstairs while she cooks. A few months ago, it would have felt suffocating. The York estate was large enough to lose oneself, which Sherlock needed then. Lately, the need to be alone has lessened with each conversation with Mike. He feels as if he's coming back to life, yet somehow a little different from the Sherlock he was.

David: watching the rain hit the windows as I'm lying on my bed 

John feels a twinge in his pants and they haven't even begun.

Mike: I'd rather be there

Sherlock swallows roughly. He has to control his emotions; take it moment by moment. He has now which is enough.

David: i wish you were here too

Mike: what are you wearing?

Sherlock glances down at his plaid pyjama pants and faded green vest.

David: a black dress shirt and black trousers 

John's mind is flooded with images of Sherlock. Though, Sherlock didn't often dress in all black. The plum shirt was John's favourite. 

He shakes those thoughts from his head.

David: and I'm standing in the doorway of the nurses room

Mike: I'm behind the desk, watching you

David: I sit on the desk in front of you. 

Mike: my hands rest on your thighs, with my thumbs rubbing circles on the inside 

David: you can see my interest grow

John stifles a laugh.

David: what do you want to do first?

Mike: I'd like to kiss you. I want to explore your mouth with my tongue

Sherlock's cock swells to life.

David: I want to suck on your bottom lip. Maybe give a nibble

Mike: I would tease your tongue with mine, I want to feel everything 

Mike: I have never kissed a man. You would be my first 

Sherlock moans thinking of virginal Mike under his lips.

David: then I will be gentle

The tightness in John's trousers forces him to lower his fly.   
Mike: not too gentle 

Sherlock places a hand over his tented erection. 

Mike: I would kiss down your throat. Maybe rough enough to mark you red. My hands slide up your chest to feel your nipples through the fabric

Sherlock can see this in his mind palace in the new room dedicated to Mike. It's at the other end of the house, away from the locked door where Sherlock has stored John. 

David: you said you're short. What else do you look like?

John decides he can afford to be honest. 

Mike: blonde hair and blue eyes. I'm scruffy as I haven't shaved in a few days

David: my chin would be raw from beard burn then. I'd feel you for days after

Mike: have you kissed a man with a beard?

David: I don't have an extensive sexual past, but I did prefer my partners clean shaved 

John rubs the scruff on his cheek.

Mike: then I'll shave

David: don't you dare. I am picturing a light beard with perhaps some grey?

Mike: you'd be correct

David: I want that sensation against my skin

Mike: then I'm unbuttoning your shirt and kissing your chest. Is it hairy or smooth?

David: little bit of both. 

Mike: you sound gorgeous 

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably; thinking of how he used to look. He never gave much attention to the physicality of others or himself. He observed how people responded to him. Women fluffed themselves while men let their eyes wash over him. Now, he was damaged; a monster.

David: perhaps before. It's probably best we're doing it like this where you don't have see

John's heart breaks for David. Who were these friends that turned their backs and destroyed this man?

Mike: I want to see you - all of you. I want to gently kiss all the places you were hurt

David: I'm about to ruin your shirt by ripping it off and causing buttons to fly all over that room. Since it's the internet, I'm clearly strong enough to make it happen 

John chuckles lightly.

Mike: do you have sensitive nipples? Would my tongue on them excite you?

David: use your teeth

Mike: my hands massage up your thighs, fingers brushing the bulge in your trousers 

David: I pull you against me to bite your neck. YOUR shoulder. I'd mark the skin above your nipple, so dark and big everyone would know a man did it

John fumbles with his belt to unfasten his trousers. 

Mike: I would kiss down your chest, across your stomach. I push you back so you are almost lying on the desk. 

Sherlock's hand slides across his chest and over his stomach to slip below the waistband on his pyjama bottoms.

David: you've never tasted semen, have you?

Mike: no, but I want to know how you feel in my mouth

David: when you unzip my trousers you'll find I'm not wearing pants. I wanted to be ready for you

"Christ," John mutters as he adjusts himself to relieve the pressure. 

David: are you hard?

Mike: yes, like that first night

David: I'm going to slip off my pants to touch myself. 

Mike: I can't take mine off

David: will you take yours out? I want to imagine that I could lean over and swallow you whole

John pushes his pants down to free his cock. 

Mike: it's my turn David. I'm going to slip those trousers to your ankles. I'm licking from the base of your cock to the tip

Sherlock's fingers caress his cock. The thought of a blonde man's head bobbing between his legs as he's perched at the edge of a metal desk is nearly enough to end him now.

David: how do I taste?

Mike: heaven

John wraps his fingers around himself. He imagines a dark haired man with eyes loaded with lust spread across his desk.

Mike: I take you deep in my throat. I hum around and you feel the vibrations through your balls. I place your hands in my hair. I want you to set the place

David: if you do that, I won't be able to control myself. 

John has never wanted a cock in his mouth as he wants David's. 

Mike: that's what I want - to taste all of you

Sherlock moans. It's mid afternoon and the only one home is Gladys the housekeeper. The door is locked, so Sherlock strips to nothing and pretends his hands are Mike's. 

David: my hands can't wait. I push your trousers and pants to your knees. I want to feel us together

John tightens his grip on his cock.

David: I pull you on me so I can wrap a hand around our cocks and stroke. Can you feel how hot I am against you? How much I want you?

Mike: yes. I'm thrusting against you.

David: I wish I could see you 

He isn't sure what drives him; perhaps he's just drunk on desire or all the available blood flow is redirected to his cock. John grabs his phone off the desk and open the camera.

 

Sherlock's heart races out of control. An image? From Mike? He sits up so fast, his head spins.

It's a beautiful penis; thicker than his own. It curves up from a thatch of dark hair, the head so engorged it's nearly purple. 

Sherlock always found sex more of a function than a need. At times, it got him what he needed. Usually, it was scratching an itch more than fulfilling desire. Sherlock feels a burning swirling deep inside his gut - a want so base and real, it make it difficult to breathe. Sherlock wanted Mike buried so far inside him, he wouldn't be able to walk for days.

David: you have a beautiful penis

His hand shakes as Sherlock holds the phone over his own erection. He cannot believe he is doing this. Swallowing a lump of pride in his throat, he hits upload.

 

John never expected a response to his bold gesture. He nearly jumps out of skin as he watches the scrolling dots as the image transmits. 

David is long and slender compared his own. The hair at the shaft has an almost ginger tinge. John sees the pre-ejaculate gathered at the head of David's penis. John never wanted to know what it felt like to be breached by a cock, but he longs for the sensation of the one in the photo to push inside him. His mouth nearly waters to lick the head just to taste David. 

The patches of gnarled red flesh covering part of David's abdomen, hip, and upper thigh also catch John's attention. It's a harsh contrast from the pale skin with an occasional brown mole. He wonders if David realises how much he has revealed. 

Mike: you are gorgeous 

John means it wholeheartedly. 

David: I bite at your lips and kiss them raw. They'll still be red and puffy when you go home. I push you off me to turn around and lean over your desk. I need you now, Mike 

Mike: you better be touching yourself

David: I'm not coming until you're ready

Mike: I grab whatever lubricant I can find. I slick myself up before squeezing your arse. Do you want me?

David: oh god yes. Fuck me now

Mike: I'm pushing into you. You're so tight. Can you feel me fill you up?

"Oh yes, please fuck me," Sherlock whispers.

David: I want it so hard the desk moves

John bites his lip. 

Mike: my fingers dig into your hips and I drive into you. One hand wraps around your beautiful cock to have you come on my floor

David: I'm close, are you

Mike: just waiting for you, love

The term of endearment sends Sherlock over. The tight ball of pleasure bursts, sending a warm wave of ecstasy through the rest of his body and across his stomach. 

John grabs a handful of tissues to catch his ejaculate. He still needs to see patients today and cannot mess his trousers or shirt. He envisions his fist is David that he's disappearing into. Closing his eyes, he can picture a man pressed to his desk as John pumps in and out of him. He grips the flesh so hard that red marks are left. 

"Oh Jesus," John grunts as that image morphs into Sherlock on his stomach against the stack of files.

He comes so hard that he finds it hard to breathe. He pants through the orgasm, trying to be as quiet as possible.  
John leans his head against the desk.

Sherlock pushes his hair from his eyes. Blinking rapidly, he listens to his heart pounding in his ears. The rush resembles the post-case high that he misses. He rolls off the bed to clean himself up in the en-suite bathroom.

John does his best to clean himself up. Unfortunately, bits of tissue stick to him. He'll have to beg for a quick shower when he gets home. With the sleeve of his shirt, he wipes the sweat from his brow. Quickly, he tucks himself back into his pants and does up his trousers. He already feels sticky and uncomfortable. It will be a constant reminder of his lunchtime activities, and that brings a smile to John's lips

Mike: are you still there?

After a minute -

David: I am, I was just freshening up

Mike: I had to make do with tissues. I'll be sticky until I take a shower

David: fond memories of me

Mike: very fond. My lunch is up and I've nothing productive to show for it.

David: open your trousers to show them

Mike: I'd be sacked for several reasons

David: then you could spend your days here

John's heart catches. 

Mike: would you want that?

Sherlock's fingers brush over the bumpy skin on his cheek. Could Mike ever come to really ant someone as damaged as he?

David: I think I would....someday

John wants to tear out of the office and straight into David's arms. How can someone he's never met come to mean so much in such a short time?

Mike: I look forward to that day

Sherlock draws his knees up to under his chin and hugs his legs tightly as he stares at his phone. He wills himself to not feel too much hope, joy or too much of anything. If he's learned anything is that it can all disappear tomorrow.

Mike: thank you for sending your photo

David: it only seemed polite

Mike: I'm saving it for later

David: I've made yours my phone wallpaper

John jumps when the intercom buzzes.

"Shit," he grumbles and snatches the phone. "Yes? My three o'clock? Yes, yes. Give me five minutes to finish up."

Mike: the wolves are at the door. I hate to run

David: love them and leave them kind of chap then?

Mike: only to save lives

Sherlock thinks 'save the life'. He needs to stop comparing them - John and Mike. 

Mike: chat tonight?

David: of course. Will you be able to get away?

Mike: I'll be free after 10:30. See you then?

David: I look forward to it

Sherlock unfurls from his tight ball to stretch out on his bed. The rain lashes the large windows mercilessly. It would be a perfect day to wrap around a warm body and doze the afternoon away. He has over seven hours to kill. Pulling himself up, he shuffles to the desk in the corner of his room. He has the files from last night to look over. Instead, he grabs the football book at bring back to bed. After all, he has seven hours.


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is a poor substitute for the wall at Baker Street, but it is what Sherlock has now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope to have some artwork to accompany the work soon. Thanks Megabat and for everyone who helps me along the way.

It is a poor substitute for the wall at Baker Street, but it is what Sherlock has now. He sits cross-legged on his bed facing the headboard; his eyes are focused on the wall above where he has pinned up photos and several pieces of paper. It is at a serious disadvantage not being able to see crime scenes or interview friends or family. Now he has to rely on incompetence to be his eyes and it's maddening.

His eyes flick between the four women - no physical similarities. They have different hair colour, height, weight and build. They are office workers, shop owners, bankers and dispatcher. He does not know where they were kidnapped or where they were killed. Their bodies were found in no discernible pattern around London. Only the bloodletting and messages ties the bodies together. Bank note. Tea bag. Chlorine tablet.

"What have you done to my wall?" Mycroft sighs heavily from the doorway.

"This is how I think. It's like you've never stepped foot in Baker Street." Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Not only do you not observe, but you do not even see."

"You will repair this wall, Sherlock."

"What are you doing here? Don't you stay in London?" Sherlock shrugs.

"I have more files for you." Mycroft drops two thick files on the bed beside the detective.

"Don't you have people to run your errands for you?" Trying to regain his concentration, he squints at the wall.

"Thought I'd pop in to see how you were, how your football studies were going." Sherlock can hear the amusement in his older brother's voice.

"You are never too old to learn something new," he mutters.

"But sports? How quaint." Mycroft smirks playfully.

Sherlock needs to stop Mycroft's probing before he reaches a pressure point.

"Yes, Agent Carter is a big fan of Liverpool."

"Very droll, Sherlock." Mycroft wanders over to wall.

"You know he's homosexual," Sherlock muses casually.

"Y-yes." Mycroft frowns.

Sherlock smirks. "Of course you know. I wonder how well..."

"Are you making progress with this?" Mycroft gestures to the wall covered in paper.

Sherlock silently enjoys his victory. "Not without all the facts. Unfortunately, I have to wait for the killer to make a mistake. I'm far less effective trapped here." He gestures around his tiny room.

"Sherlock, you know that visiting the crime scene is impossible," Mycroft starts.

Sherlock flings himself from the bed. "Yes, I am quite aware of my limitations, brother mine."

Mycroft shifts his eyes to the floor. "I know this is hard..."

Sherlock moves into Mycroft's personal space, bringing them nose to nose. "You've no idea. There is only so much that I can do with an autopsy, police reports and a microscope! I need to see, taste and be out there on the streets of London." He points to the right side of his face. "But I can't because I'll put people off. And I can't because everyone I trust and need believes I'm dead."

Mycroft moves away to breathe then turns to stare at the wall and sighs.

"I'll see what I can do," he says.

"What can you do?" Sherlock scoffs.

"Oh dear brother," Mycroft shakes his head. "Almost anything."

"Except save me from a certain death sentence." Sherlock wanders to the window.

"Jail would've certainly killed you," says Mycroft softly. "Inside and out. I did everything I could to keep you here. You killed a very powerful man. It was impossible to keep it out of the media. Any one of those agents there that night could sell you out, let the world know you killed a man in cold blood."

"He was a vulture waiting for people to reveal their weaknesses so he could exploit them or destroy them. I might be a sociopath..."

Mycroft barks out a shallow laugh. "If that was really true, you wouldn't be here. You would have never put John Watson's happiness, or his life before yours."

Sherlock gnaws on his lower lip as he stews over Mycroft's words. Sherlock would always put John first. It is one of the reasons he was shut up in a house and living in the shadows. John doesn't need to worry or pity Sherlock; h needs to be a loving husband and dedicated father - the man Sherlock sees on Facebook.

Mycroft tugs on the cuffs of his shirt and brushes imaginary lint from his lapel.

"I will see what I can do to get you closer to the investigation."

Wordlessly, Sherlock nods and watches the leaves scatter in the chilly October wind in the yard below.

"Sherlock," Mycroft admonishes. "Did you draw on the wallpaper with marker?" His eyes follow the black lines and arrows scrawled on the wall. 

Sherlock smirks. "Part of the process, dear brother. Genius is rarely neat."

"Remember that you are thirty-four and not four," Mycroft says as he leaves.

With long strides, Sherlock stalks to the door to slam it with all the dramatic effect of a teenage girl. His conversation with Mycroft leaves him tetchy and uneasy. It only takes five strides to pace the room, and after five turns, Sherlock flops on his bed with his toes pressed to the headboard. Pulling his phone out, he opens his messenger.

David: will you be free later?

Sherlock doesn't expect an immediate answer. It's during Mike's shift, but hopefully he will check his phone before heading home.

Mike: of course. Are you still up for watching the match?

Sherlock thinks about Mycroft's prying.

David: if you don't mind a ridiculous question about what we're watching

Mike: there are no ridiculous questions

David: there are many and I plan to ask them all

Mike: perfect. I look forward to it. I'll let you know when I'm ready

David: perfect. Till then

Sherlock drops his phone on his chest as the tightness in his chest releases. He has conversed with Mike every day for over a week now. Sometimes it's a quick check up; while others it talking until late in the night. Sherlock reminds himself to enjoy the moment, but he cant help wanting and hoping for more one day.

Rubbing his eyes, Sherlock closes the door to Mike's room and returns to the Work.


	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willa stands on wobbly legs as she clings to the sofa. Each day, she takes a few tentative steps before plopping down on her bottom. Sometimes she laughs, other times she cries. John marvels at how her big blue eyes focus on the new world around her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it took so long for another update. I try to do them every couple days, but my chapters seem to be getting longer. Thank you for reading and commenting. I want to thank my second sets of eyes. I want to give a shout out to [ Megabat for her wonderful artwork](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Megabat)

Willa stands on wobbly legs as she clings to the sofa. Each day, she takes a few tentative steps before plopping down on her bottom. Sometimes she laughs, other times she cries. John marvels at how her big blue eyes focus on the new world around her. 

While Mary cleans up from supper, John bathes Willa, laughing as she splashes water on him. No baby has lived a tubby more. She squeals as she tosses a rubber whale at John's head and cries when he lifts her out to wrap her in a fluffy duck towel. 

Now she sits on the floor in her bumblebee footie pyjamas looking through a board book about dogs. John joins her on the floor and leans against the sofa. Watching his perfect little girl point and babble on about the dogs makes him wonder how she would react to David. Young children don't see skin colour or disability. They react to kindness and love. Would Willa be afraid of David?

Today one of John's patients included a burn victim. The chart only referenced a persistent cough and fever, so when John walked into the examination room, he was stunned. Luckily for him, the patient was reading one of the woman's magazines and did not see John's shock. The incident took place years ago so the the damaged and grafted skin was shiny and smooth. The entire left side of his face was altered; his earlobe was gone, his lips plump and deformed. John imagined this man has suffered many injustices because of his appearance.

"What can I do for today, Mr. Jones?" He asked.

"Think I got the flu, doc," the man replied with a raspy voice.

John asked the man to remove his shirt and was relieved the man couldn't see the sadness in his eyes. His entire torso front and back had been burned. The skin was thick and twisted. It looked tight and painful as it stretched over the man's muscles underneath. John was surprised how smooth it was, almost like porcelain.

John couldn't help but think of David. The photo he kept hidden in his phone of David revealed some of his injuries, yet he wondered how much of David had been burned. After all, John is a doctor and even he was taken back by this man's appearance. Did David encounter the same looks, or gasps?

In the end, the man did have influenza. The fire years ago had damaged his lungs, and John had to admit him to St. Bart's for observation. 

Now as he plays with Willa, he can't stop thinking about David. Would John be shocked by his appearance if they ever meet? Deep down, he knows it wouldn't make a difference. In the last few months, David has done more for him than John could ever imagine a stranger could. Yet they weren't strangers anymore. They've shared intimate thoughts and actions. John finds that he's wanting more - more time, more words, more contact. He wishes he had been this bold while Sherlock was alive. Perhaps everything would be different. 

He watches Willa rock back and forth on all fours. No, he would never wish her absence in his life. As David says, the past is only another yesterday and fading memory.

Over the last week, John has thought about how to tell David how desperately he wants to meet in person. In some ways, perhaps he's not ready as meeting would be like making a promise. He is still a married man, and still very much heterosexual to everyone that knows him. How could he even think about complicating everyone's life by meeting this man? He's already been unfaithful emotionally. Coming face to face could lead to a bigger betrayal. However, denying the desire to do so is becoming more and more difficult. It nearly slips from his fingers every time they chat.

Mary has been drying her hands and watching him from the entryway.

"She's getting so big. Bet she's walking by Christmas," John glances up.

"She has to master crawling. Scooting around on her tush is not crawling." Mary perches on the chair across from John. "I was chatting with Hester over lunch today. She and Charlie booked a long weekend at a lovely bed and breakfast in Wales. Said it was really inexpensive." 

"A weekend?" He scoops Willa up to plop her in his lap.

"Four days for about £300. That would buy us one night at a crack den here.” She smiles tightly. Her hands twist in her floral skirt anxiously.

"What's to do there?" He knows where this is heading. How could he refuse his wife a romantic mini-break? 

"There's some lovely trails and quaint shops. I believe there are a few museums, one based on World War II that Charlie loves." She replies. "Some restaurants."

"Do they have accommodations for families?" John opens the dog book for Willa. Interestingly enough, her favourite dog was the one with a long reddish brown coat.

"I've already spoken to Mrs. Hudson and she would love to watch Willa."

"Leave Willa?" John frowns.

"We haven't had time for us in a long time, John." She moves to sit beside him on the sofa. "We were apart for most of the pregnancy, and then everything after Christmas. I think you could use a break. I think it would be good for both of us." She squeezes John's knee.

He knows that he can't refuse her outright. This is his wife, a woman he agreed to bind his life to - once in a wedding, and again at the Holmes' house. 

"You are right. How long were you thinking?" He asks.

"Just four days, maybe five. We didn't even go to dinner for our anniversary. Maybe this will be like a belated anniversary?" She suggests.

John is trapped; there's no possible way he can say no to her request.

"Do you have any information I can look over?" He stands to put Willa to bed.

Mary nods. "I do. I was looking it up today. After you put her down, we'll look together?"

She's hopeful; John smiles weakly. "Sounds wonderful." He prays that his voice isn't as tight as it sounds in his ears. He holds Willa out to Mary. "Say goodnight to your mum."

Mary kisses the baby girl's round cheek. Willa always looks uncertain with Mary, her eyes always searching for daddy. John has taken note of this, but can't think in it too much. Perhaps her previous life as an assassin has stripped Mary of anything maternal. John knows she loves Willa, but there's an element missing.

He carries the yawning child upstairs to her room. Four to five days of Mary being his only company, he thinks. What could they have to talk about? At least at home there are newspapers, magazines and television to fill long gaps in conversation. Taking care of Willa fills the void in their marriage that has existed since Mary shot Sherlock. 

Then there is David to consider. How would John be able to sneak away to chat with David? Not a day has gone by in several weeks that they have not chatted - at least for a few minutes. Even thinking that he would be hearing from David in roughly two hours brings a blush to his cheeks and a skip to his heart. Last nights chat had lasted for hours and ended with Mike taking David in a hospital supply closet. David has an active imagination when it comes to their on-line trysts. What could happen tonight?

He cuddles Willa close as he hums to her. She curls in again his chest with a yawn. John slowly sways to his own music feeling her body relax. The tiny fist grasping his jumper releases. Carefully, he places Willa in her cot and covers her with her favourite yellow blanket. 

"Good night sweet girl." He places a hand on her head to smooth back her golden curls. For a few peaceful moments he listens to the small high pitched breaths Willa takes in. Mary will want to continue their discussion about the bed and breakfast when John returns downstairs. He can't refuse; at best he can postpone.

Just an hour and a half until David's online for their nightly date. Should John tell him about this trip he has no choice in taking? No, why ruin a perfectly good evening. Nothing has been booked, it would be needless to upset David. John's marriage is a landmine that they cautiously tiptoe around, not wanting to disturb the tranquility of the bubble Mike and David exist. No, John won't mention it until they have a date. It's possible that Mary will lose interest as she did with pottery class or book club. 

 

When John returns downstairs, Mary's attention is focused on some soap programme. Like every Wednesday night, she'll watch it to the end. Sometimes she'll gasp and text her friend Beth over developments. She'll pour herself a glass of milk to only drink half and leave the glass on the counter for John to clean before he goes to bed. At ten o'clock, she'll kiss his forehead or cheek before turning in for the night. John could set a watch by the evenings activities in the Watson household, yet he finds it - fine. He always has David at the end of his day, and John couldn't think of a better way to spend his night.


	48. Chapter 48

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock flops onto his bed with an exasperated sigh. Dinner with Mummy and Father is always taxing to his patience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and commenting and discussing. I love hearing your thoughts and discussing the story. I want to thank my second sets of eyes - your feedback in invaluable and makes me a better writer. 
> 
> I want to give a shout out to [ Megabat for her wonderful artwork](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Megabat)
> 
> Again, comments are wonderful as are recs if you really enjoy the story. On Twitter I am @punkroxmum

Sherlock flops onto his bed with an exasperated sigh. Dinner with Mummy and Father is always taxing to his patience. It was nearly impossible to not glance at his watch and count down the moment until dessert was done and Father would be itching to leave. Unfortunately, the constant interruption through dinner from youthful revelers in poorly constructed costumes made the evening that much longer. Mummy insisted on leaving the table every time the door chimed, even though the housekeeper was perfectly capable of handing out sweets. 

As a child, Sherlock loved Halloween for the opportunity to become someone else - a pirate (his favourite) or astronaut exploring space. Most days, he felt different from other children, but on Halloween he fell right into place with everyone else. 

He grabs his phone.

David: am I too late?

Every night at ten o'clock, he has a standing date with Mike. Usually it is Mike that runs late waiting for his wife to go to bed. At ten, he heard the ping of his phone but could feel Mycroft's gaze boring into him. The last thing Sherlock needs is for Mycroft to discover his relationship with Mike. Thanks to Mycroft's protective nature, Sherlock is as good as dead and trapped in the shadows.

Mike: no, not at all

David: my parents eat at a glacial pace

Mike: and how are mum and dad?

David: annoying 

Mike: that's what parents do. It's good they want to see you

David: they made me late for you

Mike: I'd wait all night 

Sherlock clears the lump in his throat. He desperately wants this man to be real, to be his.

David: and how was your Halloween? Did you take your child out for tricks and treats?

John chuckles. Mary did insist on dressing Willa as a duck for answering the door.

Mike: no, the baby is too young and I don't need sweets. Towards the end of the night, I was giving out handfuls   
David: bit of a sweet tooth?

John licks his lips thinking of the possible innuendo.

Mike: at times. 

David: Did you get many at your door?

Mike: I was fairly busy I have to admit. Costumes are so sophisticated these days. Must have cost the parents a pretty penny.

Sherlock runs a hand over his damaged skin.

David: I should have gone out tonight. No one would have taken any notice of me. They'd marvel at my make-up capabilities 

John's chest aches with the weight of David’s words and the self-loathing. 

David: it's the one day I wouldn’t scare children 

Mike: stop. None of that talk 

Sherlock gnaws on his lower lip. The truth hurts, plain and simple. He could roam the streets in his hood and blend into a crowd of partygoers.

Mike: have I lost you in a puddle of wallowing?

Mike: because I think tonight is a great night for a dinner party

Sherlock smirks; he was hopeful that they would have some time alone. Some nights they talk about what they would do to each other, however some nights they pick familiar setting to have sex. 

David: why I think it's a perfect night

Mike: where are we?

David: a grand manor where proper dinner dress is required and manners are expected

Mike: how many are here?

David: 20. I saw you during cocktails

Mike: yes, you caught my eyes. Those blue eyes

David: we speak briefly before the gong 

John giggles.

Mike: gong?

David: clearly you've never been to a proper dinner party

Mike: no, the situation never presented itself 

David: mother and father used to entertain in their youth

Mike: so I guess we're shown to a great hall

David: it's more cozy than a hall. Like a long room flanked by waiters and butlers. We sit across from one another at the end of the table

Mike: do we ignore the crowd?

David: the table is wide so it's hard to talk. You chat with a comely blonde beside you. She thinks you’re a catch

Mike: well I am

David: but

Mike: but I can't stop looking at you with your dark wavy hair

David: you remembered 

John curls his hand into a fist. He wants so much more than this - just words on a screen.

Mike: you sit beside a dashing man with dark eyes. He's thinking of fucking you on this table

David: I'm only looking at you. I slip off my shoe to slide my foot up your shin to the inside of your thigh

Mike: I scoot down so your foot nudges the bulge in my very expensive trousers

David: you've been hard since I walked into the room

 

John loosens the tie of his cotton dressing gown.

David: my foot caresses you, feeling you get harder 

Mike: I'm guessing there's linens on the table, you know, to hide nefarious acts

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

David: focus, I'm trying to get you off

John chuckles.

Mike: right, sorry

David: unable to control myself, I knock a spoon off the table

Mike: I watch you slip from your chair

David: you feel my hands on your thighs first. My thumbs caress your balls then move across the shaft to the tip

John's cock swells inside his pants. 

Mike: I kick off my shoe and plant my foot between your thighs

Sherlock slips his red silk dressing gown off his shoulders.

David: knowing time is tight, along with your trousers, I lower your zipper

Mike: I'm wearing tight black pants

David: my favourite 

*IMAGE UPLOADING FROM USER 221*

Indeed Mike is wearing black pants with the head of his cock peeking out of the waistband.

David: I tongue at the tip to taste you

Mike: I am trying to carry on a conversation with Lady Ann but it's near impossible with that tongue of yours

David: I'm grinding myself on your foot. Can you feel how hard I am?

Mike: one hand slips under the table to run through your hair

David: I take you all the way down my throat, one hand sliding to tug at your balls

John rubs his erection through his pants.

Mike: I want you to jerk off under the table - onto their expensive rug

David: I might hit your leg. How will you explain that?

John cups his balls.

Mike: then I get to keep a piece of you

Sherlock groans, and he hasn't even touched himself. How could this man make him into such a wanton fool with just his words?

David: I take myself in my hand and imagine it's your mouth. I picture you against the wall as I'm ramming my cock down your throat 

Mike: you'd like that? Driving my head into the wall so I couldn't move.

Sherlock steps out of his pants and stretches out on the duvet. 

David: are you touching yourself?

Mike: a little. I'm trusting you have more planned and I want this to last

"Mm," Sherlock sighs.

David: what are you doing now?

Mike: cupping my balls as if it's your hand. You?

David: I'm just naked on the bed. I haven't touched myself yet

Mike: I'm guessing you have something more than sucking me off under a dinner table in mind 

David: I'm going to take you so deep in my throat and press my finger just under your balls.   
Like I'm going to enter you.

John reaches behind his balls. 

David: I'll feel you get full and heavy against my chin. Your nails will scrape my scalp letting me how close you are. You'll feel feel the movements of me massaging myself with the top of your foot pressed to my scrotum. Just as I come on your pant leg and the family heirloom rug, I'll pull off to bury my face your pubic hair and lick the perspiration from your tight balls

John pushes his pants to his knees. Mary took an Ambien before bed so even if she finds him, she'll believe it was just a drug induced dream.

Mike: I want to touch myself but I'm afraid I'll come too soon, like the other night

David: that was my fault. I had no idea that sex in locker room would push you over the edge so quickly

Mike: to be fair, you were wearing a uniform and covered in sweat and dirt

David: I never I was

Mike: shhh. You were in my mind 

David: I love the way your mind works

Sherlock traces his lips with his finger, pretending it is Mike's.

Mike: I'm more interested in where your’s is going. You've brought me to the edge at a posh party. Now what?

David: I tap on your leg and leave my napkin on your lap. Carefully I tuck that beautiful cock into your trousers. 

Mike: what does the napkin say?

David: excuse yourself - now

Mike: with come on my leg and a raging erection?

David: says the man who made me watch all of the Lord of the Rings movies which are in fact fantasy 

Shaking his head, John laughs.

Mike: okay, fine. I excuse myself and go where?

David: you wait outside the dining room, in the hall

Mike: I lean down to run my fingers through your come

David: I'm sure it's tacky by now

Mike: but delicious with sweet undertones 

"God," Sherlock sighs. He gives his cock one long pull.

David: I meet you in the hall. I give you a once over before I shove you against the wall to lick the seam of your lips 

Mike: I open my mouth to let you in. I can taste a bit of myself on your tongue

David: I grind myself against you and whisper in your ear 'take me upstairs and fuck me'

Mike: show me where 

Sherlock rolls over to his stomach to feel the cool satin duvet against his cock. Many nights, he's thought of Mike, his faceless lover, rolling him over to bring Sherlock up to his knees.

David: I take your hand to lead you to the master bedroom. The Lord of manor's bed. I want you take me here

Mike: what does the room look like?

David: large fireplace already lit to warm the room. Heavy dark drapes framing long windows. Ornate dressers of dark wood. And of course a large bed covered in a red silk duvet

Mike: I push you on the bed to slowly remove every piece of clothing. Your shoes, trousers. I kiss up your legs, inside your thighs. 

David: I'm hard again. 

Mike: when you're naked on the bed, I kiss everything. Your chest, stomach. I take each ball in my mouth and hum until I hear you groan 

Sherlock moves his hips to slide himself against the soft fabric. 

David: did you undress?

Mike: not yet. I'm not done worshipping your body with my mouth 

David: you always know the right words 

Mike: I roll you over to bring you to your knees. You hear my belt clink.

Sherlock reaches underneath to take himself in hand.

Mike: you feel my breath against your arse. I run my tongue across your balls and place my hands on your arse. With a squeeze, I part your cheeks.

David: Christ 

Mike: I slide my tongue along the crack to your hole

David: no one has ever done that 

John can hear David's breathy gasps in his mind. Slowly, he strokes his cock.

Mike: I would do it. If I was there now in your bed. I would fuck you with my tongue to hear you gasp and moan.

Sherlock kneels on the bed. 

*IMAGE UPLOADING FROM USER 129*

David's bed looks posh with its deep red duvet and pile of pillows. John wants to lose himself there, with David.

Mike: is that really yours?

David: it's where I think of you

Mike: are you touching yourself?

David: yes, the thought of your tongue inside…

Mike: I can't wait. I roll you over

David: on my back?

Mike: I want to see your face when you come. I want to kiss you and fill you everywhere I can

David: yes. Please, I want you

Sherlock grabs a small bottle of lubricant.

Mike: I wrap your legs around my waist

David: interesting, I don't recall you undressing 

John coughs out a laugh.

Mike: remember, it's fantasy so one snap of my fingers and they disappear 

David: fantasy sex is fantastic and practical

Mike: you better hold on because I'm about to fuck you into this mattress 

Sherlock strokes his cock with one hand while he enters himself with two fingers. It burns, much like it would if it was Mikes cock thrusting into him. He wants to know the sensation, the feeling of being filled - it's been so long since someone has taken him. He can imagine being spread out under Mike, grasping at broad shoulders while everything burns. 

Mike: I'm watching you pant. I kiss your face, your neck. I mark that skin for mine

"Yes, claim me," Sherlock moans.

David: I'm close. I'm pretending my fingers are you claiming me so deep.

An image of David fingering himself finishes John, and he's coming in spurts on his stomach. If he was there sprawled over David, he would kiss him. It is the one thing that John misses most, the slide of tongues and mingling of breath.

Lately, he's had more cybersex with David than actual contact with Mary. There are times when he feels guilty about that. After all, he chose her above everyone including Sherlock.   
Sherlock wraps his dressing gown around him after cleaning up, and curls up on his bed.

David: you were amazing as always

Mike: imagine the damage we'd do in person

Sherlock feels his chest cave in. There are many reasons why that is like their sex - a fantasy.

David: I'm not sure England is ready for that much sexual energy in one place

John sighs heavily. It's best to get it over with.

Mike: I have some bad news

Sherlock's stomach drops. Of course he wasn't enough like this. Mike needed someone to get over his friend, and now he is fine. What does he need a disfigured sex toy for?

David: it's fine. You don't have to say anything. I've had a lovely time 

Mike: STOP! I shouldn't have started this way. Don't you dare sign off because I WILL hunt you down. Just listen to me

Sherlock's fingers twitch on the silk sash of his gown.

Mike: I have to go away next weekend- with my wife. She's booked us 5 days at some remote bed and breakfast 

While he is relieved that Mike is not ending their relationship, Sherlock cannot help but feel disappointed that he will be away.

David: I'm going to guess there is no wifi there

Mike: or alone time. I'll not be able to escape 

David: you sound as if you are dreading this

John runs his his fingers through his sweat damp hair. 

Mike: We’ve not been alone in a long time. We’ve had some infidelity on her part about a year ago. 

David: This is why she suggested it. It’s a distraction from you remembering that time. Did you stay because of your child?

John’s stomach rolls as the memories of last year rush in. He wishes that he never brought up the subject of Mary, their marriage and this bleeding weekend up. He longs to be a postcoital cocoon on that red duvet, far from his crumbling marriage and ghosts of the past. 

Mike: perhaps. Maybe I thought it would survive. 

David: you don’t sound very hopeful

Mike: I don’t know what I feel to be honest

It’s dangerous territory Sherlock has wandered into with Mike who is in a fragile state. 

David: let’s change the subject then

Mike: I hate that I won’t talk to you. I know that considering I’m married, it’s probably not right that it bothers me so

David: I will miss you, friend

Mike: I’d like to think we’re a bit more than that

David: that we are. It might be undefinable but it’s certainly more than just friendship. 

Sherlock is not ready to define what they are, yet he knows what he feels for Mike. Is it deeper than what he felt for John? No, but it’s on a different level. John was unrequited love from the very start. Sherlock knew that it would never be realised or returned, and he made peace with it. With Mike, he feels almost equal - save for the things that keep them apart like a marriage and a Sherlock’s injuries. 

John bites his lip as his fingers hover over his phone. What the hell, he thinks.

Mike: I think we should meet

Sherlock stares at the words at a loss for how to respond.

Mike: I want to meet. It’s all I’ve been able to think about. 

Fingers run along the bumpy skin of his cheek and neck. The skin is not red and charred looking as it was months ago. However, it still gnarled and now shiny. It doesn’t move like his plush unharmed skin. When he smiles, he can feel the pull around his eyes, the tightness in his cheeks. At one time, Sherlock was considered beautiful, and he is no longer even ordinary looking. 

David: I don’t know. I’m not sure I am ready for that. 

Mike: if you’re afraid I’ll turn away because of your burn, I won’t. I don’t care about that

David: meeting makes things very real. There’s no backing down from a physical confrontation

John is desperate to convince him, feeling that he will disappear into nothingness.

Mike: I know what is at stake about meeting. 

David: I don’t think you are ready. You have your family to consider

Mike: I have my own happiness to think about too. Our talks and time together make me very happy, and I just want more

David: I am not sure either of us is ready

Mike: Okay, then how about this? I’m going to go away on this weekend. I’ll not attempt to make contact with you. If I still feel as I do right now, then we meet

Sherlock considers this. A man who has never set eyes on him wants to throw away a marriage for the chance of what with Sherlock? First, he’s not been totally honest with Mike. Perhaps Mike would understand once he reveals himself. Second, how can he let Mike walk away from his family? 

Mike: Please David. Unless, I’m wrong and you don’t want to get involved. I never considered that

David: I’m apprehensive about getting involved. I do not want to break apart a family

Mike: If it ends, it will be because of me and my wife. You just helped me see who I really am and what I really want

Mike: I’ll wait as long as you want. Just say that you want to meet me

David: very much so, I just need some time

Mike: I can wait. In fact, I don’t want photos of each other or phone calls. I want to see and hear you for the first time when you are standing in front of me. I want everything at that moment

Sherlock smirks. 

David: Everything?

Mike: Everything you’ll give me

David: Meeting at a restaurant might be problematic

John smiles.

Mike: There are men’s rooms you know

Sherlock’s cock twinges. 

David: stop...you’ll get me started again

Mike: I’m half way there...and not ready to say goodnight


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Yes Mycroft."
> 
> "There's a car coming to get you. It should be there in twenty minutes. Get dressed," Mycroft orders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading. For those who make comments/discussions, thank you very much too. It gives me perspective; and an author always loves and needs to hear that their story is like and being enjoyed. 
> 
> I want to thank everyone who helps me get this off the ground in every single way. 
> 
> I want to give a shout out to [ Megabat for her wonderful artwork](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Megabat)
> 
> I love comments and if the story moves you, I'd love a shout out. I'm @punkroxmum on Twitter and I do shameless post that I've updated there. 
> 
> I have already started Chapter 51 to post mid week next week - hopefully. 
> 
> Thanks and have a great weekend.

"Yes Mycroft."

"There's a car coming to get you. It should be there in twenty minutes. Get dressed," Mycroft orders.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and glances outside. "What makes you think I lounge all day long in dressing gowns and pyjamas? I am dressed."

"It is past midnight. It's not unheard of to be wearing bed clothes," Mycroft remarks.

"I would have thought your cameras would have caught my current state of dress," Sherlock replies sourly.

"Contrary to your beliefs, brother, I do not have a camera in your room. I'd rather not know what you get up to."

Sherlock is relieved. Twice a week, he does a thorough sweep of his room to be certain there are no witnesses to his activities with Mike.

"You're outside, why?" Then he gasps with glee. "There's another body and I'm being whisked to the crime scene."

"You make it sound so romantic." Mycroft says wryly. "Yes. I have secured the scene for you."

Sherlock replaces his dressing gown with a black suit jacket. "Have the police been there?"

"You will be the first."

"I'm certain you won’t tell me how you secured that. Who is there?" Sherlock asks as he slips into his shoes.

"Only my people. Agent Carter will escort you. I'll see you soon."

Mycroft disconnects the call before Sherlock can ask any questions about the victim or scene. Before the car arrives, Sherlock takes a long look at the wall of evidence. What will the new victim reveal? He slips his small leather evidence case into the pocket of his coat. He'll have to search for the hidden clue in the cold and dark - not ideal.

Yet, he can't deny the rush of adrenaline he feels as he slips into the car beside Carter. It's been almost a year since he's been to a crime scene and he's positively giddy.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes," Carter nods.

"I've told you to call me Sherlock," he says.

"I know, sir," Carter says.

"Sorry for the hour." Sherlock knows from the competing smell of two different colognes that Carter was interrupted.  
Jealousy radiates from his gut to close around his throat. What would it be like to leave the warm arms of a lover, to still smell of their skin? Sherlock is certain that he will never know that sensation as the one person he wants is currently on holiday his wife and wrapped in her embrace. Typical that he would choose another unavailable male to obsess over. First, the very heterosexual John and now, the very married Mike. 

"No bother, sir." Cater replies and gazes out the window to end conversation.

"Can we move any faster? Rain is due and will wash away valuable evidence," Sherlock hisses suddenly irritable.

"I'm sure Mr. Holmes has secured the scene as best he can, sir."

Sherlock's leg jumps in anticipation. How long can Mycroft hold off the Met? 

The car pulls down a dark road on the northern fringe of London. The abandoned industrial park has been for sale for years, but with contaminated soil and pipes, no developer has made an offer. However, the homeless do not care about carcinogens and have taken up residence in some of the less deteriorated buildings.

As Sherlock suspects, Mycroft is huddled against the driving mist with a handful of dark trench coated agents.

"Why are you here?" He asks. "This isn't really your area."

"I need to cover in case an over ambitious detective stumbles upon this scene," Mycroft replies. "You have five minutes."

Sherlock produces his brown leather case from his coat. "Five? What am I supposed to do with that?"

"What you do best, Consulting Detective." Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

"Do we have any light?" Sherlock's small torch barely casts a glow in the dank night.

On cue, every agent including Carter shines an industrial strength torch on the body.

"Quickly. This is certain to draw attention," Mycroft instructs.

Sherlock frowns immediately. "The victim is male. Why did you bring me here for this?"

"He's been drained. There are tubes in both radial and ulnar arteries - both wrists."

"They wanted him to suffer. Carotid would have been quicker," Sherlock bends over the victim. "Why a man? Why now?"

Sherlock searches for a cause of death. No blunt trauma or strangulation. He sees the marks on the man's ankles - bound by leather - the kind a dominatrix would use on a client. The man definitely struggled. There are two more marks on his forearms - leaving the man incapable of moving but his wrists free for draining. The area around the tubes is dirty and torn. Hastily executed or were they damaged from the victim thrashing? Sherlock snaps photos with his phone.

"No pictures," one agent gruffly barks.

Sherlock looks to Mycroft.

"You just hold the torch, agent," Mycroft snaps. 

Snapping on latex gloves, Sherlock unbuttons the man's shirt. He can smell the stench of old perspiration wafting to his nose. The man was scared and fighting for his life. One large red mark wraps around the man's torso. Sherlock peers closer to see a small pinprick of blood in the victim's neck.

"He was drugged then bound. I'll need to know the full list of drugs,' Sherlock instructs over his shoulder.

Carter nods and writes in a small black leather notebook.

Suddenly an overwhelming need for John to be by his side throbs through Sherlock. When he thinks of all the ways he misses and needs John, it opens old wounds he thought had healed. Mike fills some of the void, but John was everything.

Sherlock shakes both John and Mike from his mind. He has a dead body in front of him after all.

The clue is left in the most obvious place - buried down the throat. With his fingers, he slowly pulls a rusty and damaged flash drive. Mycroft leans, holding out an evidence bag.

"You can't keep it."

"You know the fools in the lab have no idea what they are looking for," Sherlock scoffs, unwilling to part with it.

"I will have my people look at it," Mycroft promises.

"I AM your people!" Sherlock snarls.

"I will get it to you, but it needs to be recorded as evidence. You know how the wheels of justice turn." Mycroft taps Sherlock's hand to drop the drive in the bag. "Time is running out. Finish up."

Sherlock growls and returns to taking photos and making notes. With tweezers, he takes samples under the victims nails, the cells inside his cheek and the soil around the body. While Sherlock is focused on the Work, Mycroft takes a phone call.

"Brother mine, we are done. The Met are on their way and we must make a discreet and hasty exit," he announces.

"I need more time," Sherlock protests.

"We don't have it. Get in the car," Mycroft orders.

With a deep scowl, Sherlock grabs the few bags of evidence he's managed to collect. With the help of Carter, they load everything in waiting car. At the very least, it's warm inside. 

"I'll be in touch," Mycroft says before turning back to the scene.

Sherlock is certain that Mycroft will be meeting with someone from the Met. Lestrade or someone over the Inspector’s head?

On cue, fat raindrops splash on the windshield as the car pulls away from the desolate park. The agents have extinguished their torches leaving the rotting buildings to fade into the landscape.

Sherlock suddenly feels tired. The cold sinks into his bones, but he has much to do when he gets home. It will be a welcome distraction from missing Mike who has been gone two days. Much to his and Mike's chagrin, the wife has booked not five days but a full week.

It's only been two days, but Sherlock's skin itches with want. Lately he's been craving more than Mike's words. It's been years since he's felt another man on him, inside him. Even though John had awakened interest in such things, Mike has stoked the flames of hunger - a desire so white hot it burns to think about it. He's tried touching, even penetrating himself, but the lack of contact from someone else eats him alive.  
Now Mike is curled up in a cozy quilted bed with his wife. Perhaps even after sex - maybe so good that Mike remembers he desires women. Maybe his fascination with 'David' is a phase, something to replace his grief with. Sherlock fears this holiday will bring Mike and his wife back together negating the need for him. It's a black hole that opens wider for every hour that passes. He rubs his forehead; how can he survive another four days?

When Sherlock returns home at four in the morning, he goes directly to the kitchen to pull out his equipment. He knows the housekeeper will scold and huff around him to make breakfast. Autonomy is one of the things he misses about Baker Street. He could move through the flat and do exactly what he wanted. John might offer a sigh or snide comment, but Sherlock largely ignored him. 

At six in the morning, the housekeeper is cursing him under her breath. He refuses to move or eat the toast she's offered. 

At noon, his phone buzzes on the kitchen table. Quickly he swipes it only to be disappointed that it is just Mycroft. 

I will be by with the contents of the drive - MH

Something to look forward to, Sherlock sighs. 

Today is only day three of Mike's vacation. Maybe today there will be a message.

Sherlock stretches his neck and returns to his microscope.


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Mary's urging, John leaves his phone at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading and leaving comments that spark discussion. I enjoy and treasure each one. 
> 
> I want to thank my team of eyes that push me to not just write and dump but to really go back and make the words count - or I hope they do. The next chapter will be longer (I have to start it) so it might take a bit of time to write and get my editor's to poke me. I *hope* by the end of next week to have it. 
> 
> Again thank you for everything!

At Mary's urging, John leaves his phone at home. He protests since they are leaving Willa with Mrs. Hudson for a week. Mary tosses his phone into a drawer and tells him that she's bringing her phone, adding that she doesn't want any interruptions. John understands that interruptions mean the clinic and Greg - maybe Mike calling to go out for a pint. If he argues too much about it, she'll get suspicious. After all, she is a former CIA agent. It's one of the reasons John has suggested to David that they not exchange email or phone numbers; the chat on the Grief website is harder to discover or follow.

John does enjoy the first nights of uninterrupted sleep and a lazy lie-in on the mornings. Mary wakes to go to the kitchen to have tea with the other guests while John wakes slowly and enjoys the moment of solitude. He knows when Mary returns to the room, it will be another day of hiking and antiquing. 

They meet another couple who are nice enough. Sally and Jasper are amiable and Mary is desperate for couple friends. She was thrilled when John told her about Sherlock and Janine. Meanwhile, John vomited at the thought of them in the shower together. He was thrilled that the dinner Janine suggested never came to fruition.

What Sally and Jasper provide is company and avoidance. They hike and have dinner together which turns into drinks at the cozy pub across the street. John laughs and talks football with Jasper while Mary makes plans to meet them again in the spring. The rounds keep coming at John's urging to be certain that Mary requires help up the stairs. He can pour her into bed and let her sleep it off while he goes into the bathroom to think of David and have a wank. All their stories are stored in his mind to reference when he needs release. 

But on the fifth night of their interminable stay at the cottage, Jasper and Sally decide to have a night for themselves, forcing John and Mary on their own. They have a pleasant and cordial dinner where they discuss Christmas and what to get Willa. Harry, claiming to be sober, wants them over for dinner. John is hesitant as he knows Harry has never liked Mary. Of course, Mary has no family that he knows of, at least. She never talks about her past, clinging to John's words last Christmas about only looking forward. If only she let him into her past, even a little peek, maybe they could have made it.

"Nightcap?" John nods towards the pub.

Mary grabs his hand. "I have something back at the room."

John's heart sinks. He knew it was inevitable that she would want sex. 

For four nights, he tried to wind himself up to want to make love to Mary. She was drunk enough to not care if he was good or just going through the motions. Tonight, she'll know.

He suggests they finish the bottle of champagne Mary had delivered and follow up with a cognac. It’s not enough to get Mary drunk, but will hopefully make his lackluster love-making less apparent. Slowly, she kicks off her shoes and untucks her floral blouse. There is a gleam in her eye that John knows he cannot refuse. He suggests a massage, hoping the slow contact of skin on skin will be enough to arouse him. The pang of guilt in his chest threatens to split him in two. Somewhere on a red duvet, lounges David waiting for him to return. 

Hurriedly and without ceremony, John undresses Mary almost clinically. There are no lingering touches and soft caresses. Fumbling through the suitcase, he finds her hand lotion and squirts a cold glob on her back. 

“Don’t quit your day job,” she mutters. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles. 

He sets to work at working the lotion over her back and shoulders. The contours feel wrong and rounded under his fingers. He shakes his head incredulously. How could he go from a clear heterosexual with an extensive history to craving the hard lines and anatomy of man in less than a year?

He pinches his eyes closed again. There is a naked woman under his hands and his cock is flaccid and completely uninterested. 

John rubs the round globes of her arse and his cock twitches a little. He thinks of pulling her up on all fours with her hand against the iron headboard to brace herself against his thrusts. 

His fingers tease around the hole, and she jumps. 

“Do you need an anatomy class?” she giggles. 

“Sorry,” he says, trying to hide disappointment. 

He slides his hand underneath to find her ready for his touch. Mary parts her legs and pushes her hips up in anticipation of his breach. It feels familiar and wrong at the same time. He remembers a time when the softness of a woman’s vagina was the promise of a new world. The texture and viscosity feels wrong and unwanted. 

“Roll over,” he says roughly. 

John looks at his wife from between her parted legs. He can smell how much she wants him, and he wants to desire her in the same way. Her legs are silky as kisses the inside of her thigh. This used to be his favourite thing and his best talent. Licking his dry lips, he puts his mouth on her. 

“Yes,” she arches her back against his tongue as he tentatively tastes her. 

For a moment, he loses himself in the act. His tongue explores and pulses in just the right spot. Her hips move against him as her fingers dig into his scalp. He hardens until he thinks of the photos of David’s perfect cock flashes into his head. He has about three buried deep in his phone for no one to find. 

Suddenly, everything feels slimy and….wrong. She's pulling on his head and he feels like he's drowning. Quickly, he hops off the bed to remove his clothes before he loses his erection and has to explain why a man who hasn't had sex with his wife in months can't maintain a hard on.

His shaky fingers rummage through his wallet for the condom tucked inside.

"We don't need one," Mary says.

"I'm not ready for another Willa. She's not even one. Can you imagine two in diapers?" 

This talk is doing nothing for his struggling erection. Another baby would absolutely no escape.

Mary cocks her head in consideration. "True. Now get over here and shag me properly."

There is only one way this is going to work. "Roll over, and up on your knees," he commands.

She wags her eyebrows suggestively. "Taking charge, Captain? Yes sir."

John wonders if David has a military kink. The thought of a deeper voice calling him sir sends a wave of arousaI between his legs. He imagines a man's strong back curved in front him. He wonders how much of David's back is burned - is it shiny and swirled or red and raw? Would it hurt to touch any of the damaged skin? How will it feel against his lips - smooth or rough? Will David feel John's tongue cataloguing every ridge?

John's cock swells to life. Quickly, he slips the condom on and grabs Mary by the hip. Too soft. He imagines seeing David's hard cock dangling between his firm thighs. With the image in fresh in his mind, John lines himself up with Mary and pushes forward. He ignores the blonde back of her head, and thinks of short dark hair. Under him, Mary moans and calls his name. He wants to tell her to shut up, but sticks a finger in her mouth instead. She moans around the thick digit and teases him with her tongue. He squeezes his eyes together so tightly that he sees stars behind his eyelids. 

While grunting in her ear, he repeats’ David David David David’ in his mind. The headboard hits the wall hard enough to wake the entire inn, but John doesn't care. He thrusts into Mary at the same punishing pace he's seen in gay pornography. If he fucks hard enough, would his balls touch David's? The thought of fucking David into the mattress while stroking the man's cock is enough for him to orgasm. He thinks he hears Mary come too, but he's just happy he completed the task. 

He gives a final, "Guh," before collapsing beside her. 

Mary flips over to gaze up at the ceiling in a daze. "Wow."

"Yeah," he replies hollowly.

Her sweaty hand finds John. "It hasn't been like that since before I got pregnant."

He only nods. “Hmm.”

"We should go away more often." She rolls over to rest her head against his shoulder.

Mary’s presence feels heavy and suffocating to John. He wants nothing more than to take a scalding hot shower to wash the sex from his skin. 

Mary sighs against his shoulder and snakes her arm around his waist. John feigns a mumble as if he's fallen asleep, listening to her breathing deepen to a light snore. 

John thinks of David lying on a deep red duvet somewhere north of London. His chest feels as though it might cave in from guilt. What could he do? Mary is still his wife and these acts are to be expected. Yet John cannot wipe away the feeling that he’s done something wrong. He rolls over to stare out the window and think of strong arms holding him tightly. 

Two more days until he's back home with his daughter and David. Yet, John knows that he absolutely needs to be a husband for two more nights.


	51. Chapter 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1
> 
> Sherlock takes another nip from the flask he's nestled in his coat pocket, letting the liquor burn his throat and warm his chest. He wonders how much more it will take to calm his nerves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to do this quickly before I head out of the weekend. This is a bit darker than the other chapters. I know you are thinking, you've maimed Sherlock - there is no way to go darker. There will be a short part 2 to this that I need to finish. 
> 
> Thank you so much for taking time to read and thank if you comment. I love chatting with my readers. 
> 
> Again, a BIG thank you to the sets of eyes that push me farther and reign me in when I go a bit too off.

Sherlock takes another nip from the flask he's nestled in his coat pocket, letting the liquor burn his throat and warm his chest. He wonders how much more it will take to calm his nerves. Tonight Carter drives to London for an appointment that only he knows about as he helped arrange the evening. 

As the car pushes through the gloomy night, Sherlock ponders what has brought him to this point - to edge of decency and sanity. 

It's been seven days, one week, since he's heard from Mike. Sherlock knows that he's not due back for another day or two - Mike had been vague as to when Sherlock would hear from him. It is the uncertainty that eats at him every hour of day and night; and he cannot remember the last time he slept for more than two hours. He has spent every night in Mike's room in his mind replaying conversations. At least twice a day, he reads over their intimate chats and gazes at the pictures of Mike's cock. It's not enough, not even close. 

In the hours he sleeps, his dreams are twisted representations of his fears. Mike makes love to a woman that vaguely resembles Mary, and tells her that he loves her, that's she's the only one he needs. Sometimes they are so graphic, Sherlock wakes crying and with a painful erection. He yearns for contact and flesh. The need for physical contact drives him to be watching the landscape slip by as he races towards London.

Sherlock's head is fuzzy from Scotch and the muscle relaxant he convinced Carter to get for him. He checks his phone for messages, anything from Mike. Nothing. At this hour, he must be lying beside his wife in a postcoital haze, perhaps covered in a sheen of sweat. Were they whispering affirmations of love and recommitting to their marriage?

Mike had said that he wanted to meet, he was insistent. If he wanted it so bad, why did he run off with his wife? Why did he leave Sherlock to wonder what if there will be call in seven days?

When Carter pulls into an underground car park, Sherlock feels as though he might vomit. A dozen times, he nearly leans forward to tell Carter to turn the car around. Sherlock Holmes is many things that keep evolving but a quitter is not one of them. 

 

"Take the lift to the first floor and ask for Janice. She will take care of you," Carter says. "I have my mobile in case you need anything."

"You gave them my preferences?" Sherlock pauses.

"I did, sir." Carter nods.

His stomach is in tight knots as he steps into the lift, turning his face from the surveillance camera positioned in the corner. It's difficult to not feel pathetic requiring a place such as this. Carter assures him that Fleur De Lys is not an ordinary sex club, but it caters to many different needs: couples looking for spice, people looking for dominance, individuals wanting something out of their comfort zone. For Sherlock, he needs the visceral act of sex - just once. Then he can return to being Mike 's dirty little internet secret. 

An elegantly dressed woman greets him on the first floor to quietly direct him to a private room with two leather chair and a small table between them. She asks if Sherlock would like a drink.

"Is there something upstairs?" He asks.

She smiles gently. "All the rooms are equipped with full bars."

"I'll wait then." 

She leaves and another woman enters to introduce herself as Janice. 

"You're the owner but you don't often meet the clients, at least not recently," Sherlock says after his first once over.

The regal woman with shoulder length braids laughs lightly. "You're right, I don't. Carter called in a favour. He wanted to be certain that you were cared for."

"How often do you take clients of your own?" 

"I have a few that visit from time to time." Her eyes take their own appreciative sweep over Sherlock leaving him feel a bit exposed. She gestures to his hood. "Would you remove that?"

"I don't when I leave the house."

"You are safe. There are no cameras in this room," she reassures.

Sherlock pulls his hood off and ruffles his hair. "My...he won't be able to see me, will he?"

"He'll be wearing a blindfold as you requested. It's a shame though. Despite what you think," she gestures to the damaged side of his face, "you are quite beautiful."

Sherlock ignores her remark. "And the hands?"

"Bound. You'll have complete control of the situation." She smiles warmly. "Irene mentioned you don't like to relinquish control."

"Not for the wrong person, no." Sherlock stands. "Can we begin? I need a drink."

Janice leads him to a private lift while tapping away at her mobile. "It's an intricate dance of scheduling to be certain that anonymity is honoured at all times."

Sherlock only nods as he follows her down a long hallway. Years ago, the building was a run down hotel on the outskirts of London. From the outside, it resembles just another office building that houses accountants and lawyers. Sherlock had heard about this place, but oddly he’d never had reason to visit for either business or personal matters.

Janice stops in front of room 21 and hands him a card key. "Everything should be ready for you. If there is anything you require, there is a phone in the bathroom and on the desk. I am supposed to confiscate your mobile." Sherlock tenses immediately. "However, I've been assured that will not be necessary."

"It will not." He pats his breast pocket. "It stays here."

"Good evening." Janice nods before disappearing down the hallway.

Sherlock's hand trembles a little as he slips the keycard into the slot to hear two beeps and a click. Slowly, he pushes the door open to stand inside a beautifully tiled bathroom with a glass shower and soaking tub. Clearly, it is meant for clients to freshen up before and clean up after an appointment. A lounge would make things a bit less clinical. 

On the vanity there is an envelope with 'client 21' scrawled across it resting beside a marble sink.   
As he suspects, the contents are a contract and a list of guidelines and rules. He gives them a quick glance before discarding the pages to the side. A bottle of thirty year old Scotch sits beside a crystal tumbler on the vanity. This must be Carter's special instructions. There are hooks and hangers along the wall opposite of the vanity, and a black silk robe hanging on a hook on a large dark door. Sherlock's stomach drops as he thinks to where that door leads. 

Somewhere in the countryside, Mike has fucked his wife and not given Sherlock a passing thought. Yes Mike had said being in contact would be tough, but had he even tried? There had to be internet access somewhere in that town. Surely Mike could slip to the loo just to let David know he was missing him. Sherlock reckons that it’s probably never crossed Mike’s mind because he simply did not miss David.

He takes a deep breath as he stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Why would anyone choose him over a beautiful wife? Sherlock knows he's not an easy man to be with as he's rude, cold and selfish. Now that he doesn't have what were his dashing good looks, he has nothing to offer another person.

He pours himself a full tumbler of scotch before removing his coat and suit jacket. Just the thought of skin and sex has desire stir in his trousers. Quickly, he drains the glass of scotch to pour a second before he passes through the door to the bedroom.

"Hello," a male voice greets him. 

The room is dimly lit with flickering candles and soft lighting. It takes a moment for Sherlock's eyes to adjust to the sparsely furnished room. Like Janice stated, a desk with a phone, a night table and a large bed with a blonde man spread out naked on red satin sheets. As promised, he is bound the bedposts with black silk bindings. A matching silk strap covers the man's eyes.

"I can hear you breathe," the man says.

"Good evening," Sherlock says tightly.

“How are you?’ he asks casually.

“I’m well.” Sherlock shifts his weight uneasily. “And you?”

"You've never done this before, have you?" The blonde man smiles. 

"No. Not like this." Though he's still fully clothed, Sherlock feels stripped bare, as if this stranger can sense the loneliness, the desperation.

"Luckily, I have and I'm very good. I enjoy giving pleasure. That's why you're here, right? You want to feel good." 

I want to feel something, Sherlock closes his eyes as the heat rushes to his cock. He wants to feel Mike’s hands on his body, to give give and receive pleasure. 

"Yes." He places his glass on the desk.

"What can I call you? You know, when I come," the man’s voice drops to a husky whisper.

Sherlock swallows hard. "I'm David. Call me David." His fingers fumble with the buttons on his shirt. "Can I call you Mike?" 

The man wriggles his hips. "Of course, babe. Anything you like."

As the man's cock hardens, Sherlock feels his twitch in response. 

"What do you want David? What do you want first?" He purrs.

Sherlock walks to the edge of the bed to peer down at 'Mike'. He was clear in his specifications for a partner - fit, blonde and over 30. The man spread out before him reminds him a little of what John might have looked like before returning home from war.

With a sigh, Sherlock firmly closes the door to John Watson's room. He cannot be thinking of him. He wishes that he knew what Mike looked like. He's been told blonde and short, like the man on the bed.

"Well David?" He rocks his hips off the bed.

"I want to touch you." Sherlock swallows the dry lump in his throat. 

"Fuck yeah." Mike spreads his legs a little more.

Sherlock downs the rest of the Scotch so quickly that it's a sin against the single malt. He feels the burn into his chest as he lays a hand on the man's shin and slowly slides it up to his thigh. His fingers skim over the pronounced hip bones to press into well defined abdominal muscles covered in fine blonde hair. 

"That feels good. You have soft hands," Not Mike says.

Sherlock’s hand curls into a fist. It’s not too late to leave, he tells himself. 

"Are you hard, David? Am I turning you on?" 

Sherlock looks down to his half hard cock. Something holds him back from sinking into the fantasy. Is it the knowledge that this hooker’s prick would go soft if he could actually see Sherlock? 

"I want to suck you," Sherlock says roughly.

The man smiles. "I can tell by that voice of yours that you're good at sucking dick. There's condoms in night table." His fingers flick in the direction.

Sherlock wishes that his nerves would steady. Yes, it has been years since he's touched an erect penis besides his own, but he's certain he can remember how to get someone off. In his earlier years, he had been praised for his bedroom skills. 

Running his fingers through his hair, he moves to the bedside table. There is quite a variety of condoms in the drawer - ribbed, flavoured, big, natural. It would be amusing to interview sex workers about their preferences on condoms. Texture vs. viscosity, latex vs. lambskin. Of course, all for science, that is. 

If he was sober, he would make a rational decision based his deductions of the prostitute. However, the drugs and the Scotch have numbed his mind so that he grabs the first one he sees. 

Sherlock places the foil packet on the bed and sits beside the man. "Tell me if you enjoy this, Mike."

His fingers trail over the coarse hairs of strong thighs to briefly brush over a smooth scrotum. His Mike is probably hairy and musky. If his Mike was here, Sherlock would press his nose into the hollow of his hip to breathe in the sweat and anticipation. Instead, he wraps his hand around the prostitute’s cock.

"Feels so good, David," he sighs. "What do you look like?"

Sherlock's stomach sinks like a stone as he remembers why he's here - paying a man to be tied up and blindfolded for sex.

"Dark hair and darker eyes," is all Sherlock can manage to say.

"Are you going to fuck me into this mattress?" He moves his hips to Sherlock's hand.

"No Mike, I'm going to ride you until we both can no longer walk," Sherlock whispers shakily.

"Fuck yes..." The man moans.

Sherlock closes his eyes to visualise how he wants the next few hours to play out. He rolls up his sleeves and unbuttons his white dress shirt. 

Carefully, he will lower himself on Mike's cock and roll his hips until the prostate is massaged to orgasm. He will be careful that none of his damaged skin touches the man, so that he'll have no idea that he fucked a monster.Then Sherlock won't have to see disgust or pity.

The Scotch has done nothing to calm his nerves, making him feel dizzy and sluggish. Clumsily, he removes the condom from the wrapper to slip over the blonde's cock. 

If this was really Mike, Sherlock imagines there would be lips and an exploration of tongues. He would kiss and nip every inch of skin. Would Mike allow him to leave a token of their night on his skin? Would he find the wife's mark already there?

Sherlock shakes his head and tears open the foil packet.

"Yeah baby. Show me what that mouth can do," Mike hisses through his teeth.

It's like a script from years ago. When Sherlock was using, he had an active libidio and a few sex partners. Some kept him in the drugs he desired as long as he showed them what his mouth could do.

Every muscle seizes in Sherlock’s body as if time stops. Slowly he blinks and takes in the scene in front of him. It’s much too much and even in his darkest drug haze days, this is not who he is.

"You okay?" 

"I just need a moment." Sherlock hastily excuses before darting into the bathroom to steady himself against the sink.

When he looks in the mirror, with his shirt hanging open, the doors of his mind palace fly open. Why would anyone want to make love to a man so damaged? Why would Mike or John ever love a monster like him? Is he destined to a life of paying men to fuck him while he keeps them bound and in the dark.

It becomes too much for Sherlock, and he staggers to the toilet. All he can hear is the pounding in his head and the booze in his stomach splash into the toilet water. In the distance, he's aware of voice asking if he's okay. No, he'll never be okay. For one shining moment, Sherlock thought he had a second chance with Mike. Perhaps if he had been brave and met Mike sooner, maybe he would be lying in a bed with him and not hiding in a brothel bathroom. 

Mistakenly, Sherlock thought he could pretend this man was Mike and be satisfied with his feral needs being met. 

Sherlock peels off the cool toilet to stumble to his suit jacket hanging on the wall. Frantically he searches his pockets for his mobile. The names and numbers swim on the screen so much that he barely recognises Carter's number. He hits 'call' and collapses against the wall.

"Get me out of here, please." His voice is weak and breaks with despair.

"I'll be up in a minute."

Sherlock sinks to the cold tile and closes his eyes.

"David? David? Hey, whatever your real name is, what is going on?" The man calls from the other room.

He can't bring himself to move or answer.

"David, did I say something? Where are you? Are you coming back?" He calls urgently.

"I'm sorry. I'm not feeling well. You'll still get paid, I'm just....too much scotch." Sherlock tilts his head back. "It's not you, it’s me. It's always me."

“Jesus Christ,” the man swears. “My arms are starting to hurt. If we aren’t going to fuck, can you untie me at least?”

“As soon as I’m gone.” Sherlock wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

He hauls himself up on weak legs, ignoring the pleas from the man in the next room and then turns on the bathroom taps. The cold water feels comforting as he washes the vomit and condom lubricant from his hands. His fingers barely function in buttoning up his shirt. Once done, he realises that he’s done it wrong and his shirt is a askew. it doesn’t matter, he thinks as he shoves his shirt tails into his trousers. 

Sherlock’s phone buzzes. “Yes?”

“I’m outside the door,” Carter says. 

“I’ll be right out.” He slips the phone into the front pocket of his trousers. He pauses in the doorway leading to the bedroom. “I apologise for monopolising your time this evening. You will be amply compensated.”

“Fine, yeah...good night,” the man mumbles. 

As Sherlock slips into the hallway, he hears, “Freak.”

“Take me home,” Sherlock croaks, slumping against Carter.

"The muscle relaxant was a bad idea." Carter wraps a strong arm around his waist to guide him to the lift.

"The whole thing was a bad idea," Sherlock mumbles.

He closes his eyes as the lift sinks several floors. He hears Carter on the phone, something about terminating the session. While Sherlock feels relief to be out of that room, he knows he is a failure - impotent with sentiment and Scotch. He couldn't even manage a proper erection with a naked man in front of him. Always such a disappointment that Sherlock Holmes. Never alive at the right time, always dead at the wrong time. He can’t do the Work properly, and now he can’t even please another person without curling into a useless ball of inadequacy, a shell of a former man.

Carter helps him into the back of the car. “Here, drink some water.”

With a slight nod, Sherlock takes the bottle of water and slumps in the corner. Not wanting to see London slip out of view, he closes his eyes to feel the world tumble around him. His mind palace is hazy and dark with figures from the past coming down the hall. Scotch may become his new enemy after tonight. 

Sherlock swims in and out of consciousness on the ride home. The alcohol and drugs coursing through his bloodstream weigh his limbs down. He dreams of Mike and John, Mary and Moriarty, and Janine and Irene with Mycroft narrating his thoughts in his usual condescending tone. 

The next thing he feels is a sturdy hand on his shoulder. "Sir, we're home."

Sherlock's tongue feels thick and uncoordinated. He mutters some garbled words while Carter peers into his eyes. 

"Let's get you to bed," Carter says.

His curls bounce as he shakes his head vigorously. "No bed. Shower."

Carter sighs. "Fine, shower first."

The light mist falling is welcomed on Sherlock's warm cheeks. While he knows that alcohol actually lowers the body temperature, he is too warm bundled in his coat. His shirt is damp with sweat. He just wants to sit in a scalding shower to boil the nights’ events off his skin.

Being that Sherlock is taller than the compact Carter, it is not an easy task of helping the very inebriated detective through the house and up the stairs quietly. While Mycroft is away on business, there is still the household staff to consider. 

Carter deposits Sherlock on the bed. "I'll turn on the taps. Can you manage the rest?"

"Yes." He hates being cared for as if a child, but he's lost control tonight. Maybe being looked after is what he needs at the moment. "Put it as hot as it will go."

A plume of steam follows Carter out of the en suite bathroom. "I'll be right outside if you need anything."

Sherlock mutters an embarrassed 'thanks'. He's certain that Carter didn't think he would be signing on as Sherlock caretaker when he took this assignment.

He steps into the humid air of the bathroom and immediately feels the tension leave his body. Unfortunately, the heat makes him nauseous and he barely makes it to the toilet to relieve his stomach of what's left of the Scotch and few gulps of water he had in the car. He doesn't think he can be more revolting than he is now. 

Dragging himself into the shower, the beating water feels like scorching needles in his skin. In only seconds, his skin is red and blotchy. The entire evening drags him under in a wave of despair. How pathetic can one man be? To pay for sex and not only not be able to go through with it, but not even get hard enough to perform? 

Sherlock should have taken Mycroft's offer for relocation. Perhaps after this case is over, he'll request to be moved to France or New York. He can spend his days shut away from the outside world and conduct experiments and research. Forget the internet, he has no desire to initiate or respond to any contact. It only ends horribly leaving deep scars that no one can see.

Sherlock folds over into a ball and curls into the corner of the shower. The tears sting his eyes like salt in a wound. He cries for what will never be with John; tears fall for what could have been with Mike. Sherlock never minded being alone; it has protected him in the past. Now the loneliness that consumes him is tortuous. To have the glimmer of companionship be extinguished time and again.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" Carter's voice brings him to the present - shivering against the cold spray of water slumped against the freezing tiles.

He blinks against the water. "Y-y-yes?"

"You're going to freeze." Carter grabs a towel from the rack and turns off the taps. "You've been in here for almost an hour."

"What time is it?" Sherlock's shoulders hurt from being hunched for so long.

"It's nearly six in the morning. The sun's about to come up." Carefully, Cater drapes the towel over Sherlock's shoulders.

"You've been out all night. Does he know where you are?" He takes Carter’s outstretched hand to stand.

Carter straightens his back. “Who?”

“Your boyfriend, or lover if you prefer the term.” Sherlock towels off his hair. 

Carter is certain that he’s never said a word about his personal life. However, this is the great Sherlock Holmes, and there are no secrets from him. "He knows I am working late tonight. Let's get you to bed."

Sherlock finds a pair of soft flannel pyjama bottoms and his favourite faded blue shirt laid out on his bed. Clad only in a towel, he realises that Carter can see the scars that curl around the right side of his body. Until now, only the nurses and doctors had seen them. The agent doesn't flinch or appear horrified, yet he doesn't avert his eyes.

"You called me Sherlock," he grins.

Carter smirks. "It won't happen again, sir."

"I prefer it, please. I think we've moved beyond formalities tonight." He pulls the shirt over his head. 

Carter bows his head. "Fine. Sherlock it is."

He turns his back to Carter. "Good, now go home. We both need some rest."

"Yes. Are you able to manage?"

He wants to lash out that he is perfectly capable of putting himself to bed, but he knows that he owes Carter so much tonight.

"It's just a few steps. I'll be fine. Good night." Sherlock gingerly slips his pyjamas on.

"Good night, Sherlock." 

He hears the click of his door closing and the loneliness creep in. He misses the presence of another person in the room as ridiculous as that notion appears to him.

Crawling onto his bed, he doesn't bother to slip under his covers. Instead, he curls into a tight ball to ride out the rest of his inebriation. If the imminent hangover doesn't kill him, the bottomless hole of despair might.

Sleep slowly creeps up from the corners and tugs at his consciousness when a buzz from the floor pulls him back. Mycroft has probably heard about last nights field trip. The very last thing Sherlock needs in his current state is a dressing down from the walking corpse known as Mycroft. Sherlock actually envies the way his brother can sail through life unaffected by other people. Perhaps he should have taken the advice Mycroft has doled out on many occasions. Goldfish never last for long. 

His eyes slide shut as his phone buzzes one more time before a blanket of sleep overtakes him.


	52. Chapter 52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone has pulled back the heavy drapes and allowed the midday sun to flood his room. With a groan, Sherlock rolls onto his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very short chapter - almost a part 2. I didn't want to leave Sherlock hanging but had not finished this little bit in time for posting. 
> 
> I know that was a rough chapter, and thank you for sticking with me. As hard it was to read, it was harder to write. I hope this leaves everyone in a brighter place. 
> 
> Thank you for everyone that reads, comments and a BIG thank you to my extra set of eyes and thoughts.

Someone has pulled back the heavy drapes and allowed the midday sun to flood his room. With a groan, Sherlock rolls onto his stomach. His left hand searches aimlessly for a pillow to cover his pounding head. Stretching his legs, he kicks both pillows with his feet. He pries one crusty eye open to confirm that he slept the wrong way last night, or this morning rather. 

It takes a few seconds for the previous night to come flooding into his mind. From the prostitute to cowering in the shower - another banner night for the great Sherlock Holmes. When he swallows, he is certain that his mouth has been carpeted while he slept as it feels fuzzy and dry. On shaky arms, he pushes himself up to a sitting position. He's not certain which feels worse, his head or his stomach. His skin is clammy and grey - much like his mood.

Somewhere below him, a mobile rattles against the wood floor. Who is calling at the ungodly hour of - Sherlock squints to see the face of his watch - two in the afternoon? He peers over the edge of the bed to see Mycroft's name on the screen. If Sherlock doesn't answer, he'll just keep calling or worse yet - pop by. Wincing at the stabbing pain behind his eyes, he grabs his phone off the floor.

"Yes?" Sherlock drawls.

"You sound like death," Mycroft comments.

"Aren't I dead?" Sherlock lies back on the bed. "Do you have purpose for this call?"

"I am sending over the contents of the flash drive."

Sherlock bolts upright. "And?” His stomach lurches in protest.

"It's only a collection of announcements. We're looking into the names now," Mycroft says. "Perhaps there's a connection between the names." 

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. "We?"

Mycroft sighs. "My staff."

"Why are you involved at all? You never took notice of serial killers before."

"My interest allows you to be a part of the investigation," Mycroft says. "The files should be to you in under an hour."

Sherlock's phone goes dead. Is it possible that Mycroft has no idea about last night? It's a slim chance but Sherlock is grateful that he will not to discuss the events of last night just yet. 

A message floats on the screen of the phone. His stomach flips as he swipes over Mike’s name.

Mike: sorry for the hour. we left a day early because the baby is sick. I'm sorry I couldn't contact you. My phone was left at home. I don't have much of charge (long story for later) but I wanted you to know that I missed you and thought about you the entire time I was away. I have to get ready for work. I hope to talk to you later. 

Sherlock's heart pounds harder than his head. He reads the message one more time. Mike missed him. Mike thought about him. 

Sherlock's hangover lifts leaving him giddy and excited. His fingers dance across the screen.

David: I missed you. I thought the week would never end. Can't wait to talk to you 

Sherlock springs off the bed to take a shower. Mike missed him, his heart sings. 

In the bed, his phone buzzes. Sherlock dashes out of the bathroom to check.

Mike: i can chat in two hours. Are you free then?

David: absolutely 

Mike: great. I was afraid you forgot about me

David: never. I feared the same of you

Mike: nope. I was counting down the hours. Now I have 2 more. See you then

David: until then

Sherlock brings the phone to his lips as if to kiss the good news it has brought him. Last night, he had crashed to the basement of his mind palace feeling only pain. Now he doesn’t mind the sunlight streaming into his room. Despite his mood lifting, his head still throbs. The paracetemol burns going down his dry throat as he steps into a hot shower to wash the residual melancholy away. He hopes that Mycroft delivers the flash drive contents if only to keep him occupied for the next two hours. 

Sherlock decides that he is ready to take the next step with Mike and meet - as soon as possible.


	53. Chapter 53

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At four o'clock, John closes and locks the door to his office. The shift had been a long and busy one filled with the first influenza cases of the season, colds, ear infections and one nail through a foot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it took longer than usual for an update. A few days traveling really knocked me off my game. Thank you for reading, commenting and sharing. I sincerely appreciate anyone who stops by to read. 
> 
> This is a shorter chapter than I planned. I am taking advice from the sets of eyes I have looking over my brain dump. I'm currently working on the next chapter and hope to have it by the beginning of next week. 
> 
> Thank you to the team that pushes and believes in me. I love you all deeply. And to all the betas past, present and future - I am a better writer for having worked with you.

At four o'clock, John closes and locks the door to his office. The shift had been a long and busy one filled with the first influenza cases of the season, colds, ear infections and one nail through a foot. John's lunch was ingested in five minutes standing at the counter of the lounge in back. He has told Mary that he's working until six to have some time to talk with David. Hearing that David missed him too has kept John going for the last two exhaustive hours. Finally, he collapses into the worn desk chair with a tepid cup of tea.

Mike: are you free to chat now?

John drums his fingers on a pile of reports that he could be finishing instead of waiting for a reply from David.

David: you have my undivided attention

Mike: how are you?

David: I'm well. How is the baby? You mentioned your son was sick

Guilt twinges within John. He has forgotten that he told David that he has a son. It was a stupid lie at the time, but he needed to be as far removed from John Watson as possible. He will have to tell David the truth before they meet.

Mike: it was just cold with a fever. His aunt was worried

Another lie, sort of. Mrs. Hudson is family.

Mike: I was happy for the escape.

David: oh?

Mike: it was a long week. I couldn't wait to leave. The food was good. I'm sure I put on some weight 

David: I'm sure you look just fine 

Mike: I couldn't wait to get home. I was dying to talk to you

David: about anything in particular 

Mike: I still want to meet. My marriage is not something I want anymore.

Sherlock blinks at the screen of the computer. 

David: are you certain about this? We've never met  
Mike: I don't want to be with her. Whatever we had is over. Even if we never meet, I can't stay in this

Sherlock's heart races with anticipation.

David: I have given meeting you some considerable thought

John's finger tighten around his phone in a white knuckled grip.

David: I want to meet too. 

"Yes," John sighs. 

Mike: you're sure?

David: I'm nervous of rejection, of course. However, I had decided that if you came away after your holiday still wanting to meet, then I was willing to take the chance.

Mike: don't be nervous. I don't care about the scars

Sherlock runs his palm over this rough cheek.

David: you can't say that without seeing them.

Mike: I like what I've seen so far. It's what inside that matters. I know you're not a football fan and yet you try

David: I never made an attempt with my last relationship. Perhaps if I had done things, things would be different. I have a chance now.

Mike: I wish we were together now. I thought about you all weekend 

David: the last few days have been interminable, I agree. 

Sherlock strokes his chin thoughtfully.

David: are you certain you want to take things to this level? We've been skating the dubious moral ground in terms of your marriage. 

John rubs his forehead nervously. He's tried to not think of the emotional infidelity he's been committing by telling himself he needs David to move beyond grief over losing his dear friend. In the process of moving forward, John grew attached to David. It would be silly to call it love, but more like a strong affection for the man on the other side of their chats.  
Mike: this would have ended regardless. We have issues and they haven't improved. The week away reminded me that we have nothing to talk about. There's nothing there anymore.

John knows divorce will be difficult; it means leaving Willa as well. Of course he will see her every opportunity he gets. He imagines the court will set up visitation and he'll have her to his new flat. However the thought of not seeing her smile every morning and kissing her forehead each night tears him up inside. He has considered staying just for Willa, but every day John dies a little every day living with someone he barely likes.

David: I don't want you to have regrets

Mike: I have many which is why I don't want to waste anymore time. I want to meet you, to be able to touch you. Kiss you if you'll let me

David: if you still want to kiss me after you see my face and scars, I won't stop you

Mike: It's my mission to make you see beyond those scars. I've seen you help people work through their grief on the site. You are always there when I need an ear. You're amazing to me.

Sherlock can't believe this could be real, that someone could possibly want him for his inner beauty. He's rude, arrogant, and an unpleasant arsehole, as he said in his best man speech at John's wedding. He wonders if he should tell Mike about his failed attempt with the prostitute.   
Maybe later, he decides. Their relationship is in the delicate formative stage and a reveal like that could blow it apart.

Mike: when can we meet

Sherlock runs his fingers through his scraggly hair. He's in desperate need of a haircut before meeting anyone. 

David: what is your schedule like?

John clicks open his calendar on the computer. Unfortunately he has taken on extra shifts to cover his holiday with Mary. He's either working or on call for the next four days. Saturday he is scheduled until five o'clock. He could always tell Mary he's meeting a friend for a pint after, and it wouldn't be too much of a lie.

Mike: Saturday night around six?

That's so soon, Sherlock starts. 

David: Saturday night is date night 

Mike: okay, I'll let you pay

Sherlock chuckles.

David: what makes you think I can afford it?

Mike: a consulting lawyer makes more than a nurse

David: point taken. I expect a kiss at the very least

Mike: I'm not a cheap date

Sherlock strokes his thigh as the warmth in his belly moves to his pelvis.

David: then I hope for more than a kiss

John feels the stirring in his pants. As much as he wants to take this conversation to a filthy level, Mary expects him for dinner.

Mike: I think that can be arranged. Think of a dark place to meet. Somewhere hands can roam

David: I will begin my research as soon as we're done. Do you have to go or do you have time for something more intimate?

John rubs his forehead.

Mike: I have to get home and check on the little one. Maybe later tonight?

Sherlock sighs in disappointment. Since the failed attempt with the gigolo, he hasn’t been able to even touch himself. He needs Mike’s words, his encouragement and praise. 

David: I look forward till then. You know where to find me 

Mike: until then

Sherlock settles back in his chair to read their chat over once more. Mike wants to end his marriage and meet him. Sherlock wonders if he should come clean about his real identity before then. It's possible Mike doesn't know who Sherlock Holmes is - was. It's also very probable that Mike has hid his own truths. Sherlock threads his fingers together and gazes at the chat again. What could those be, he ponders.

Suddenly, Sherlock rises from his chair and crosses the bedroom. No, he will not deduce Mike; how can he without the full picture? He can't hear Mike's voice or see how he carries himself. For now, Sherlock needs to take this man at his word.

For a moment, Sherlock allows himself to feel excited about his date with Mike. It occurs to him that he's never been on a proper date with anyone. While he's had 'relationships' of sorts in the distant past, there has never been an evening spent with pleasant conversation over a meal in the hopes that physical contact would end the night's' activities. 

After stretching his arms, he plucks his violin from its case and cradles it against his shoulder. The first swipe with bow is discordant and off pitch. It's been a few weeks since he's played and humidity of the old house has wreaked havoc on the instrument. Lovingly, he loosen and tightens strings until the instrument sings like an angel 

Sherlock chooses to loosen his tight fingers by playing Schoenberg and Mendelssohn before delving into his own composition - the one he hopes to play for Mike one day.


	54. Chapter 54

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John nearly floats home from work. In four days time, he will finally meet David.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for following along with me - and for sticking with me through thick and thin. I love every comment and try to respond. If you have stumbled upon me by accident, welcome. Yes, there is is angst, but I promise a happy ending. 
> 
> I want to thank the several pairs of eyes that help me bring the best version of each chapter. They honestly make me a better writer. 
> 
>  
> 
> I want to give a HUGE shout out to [ Megabat for her wonderful artwork](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Megabat)

John nearly floats home from work. In four days time, he will finally meet David. He wishes he had time to go get some smart new trousers and maybe a new jumper. No, he can't wear a jumper, David is a lawyer and must dress impeccably - like Sherlock dressed. John remembers his flatmate taking the piss out of him for his ugly jumpers. He will need a sharp dress shirt for David. 

As John nears his house, the elation wears off slowly as his shoulders tighten and his lunch sits like a rock in his stomach. He has four days with Mary before he meets David. There's a war waging inside him; when should he tell Mary? While he's certain that he doesn't love her anymore, he doesn't look forward to hurting her. She gave him Willa, and he cannot entirely regret their union for that fact. John worries how vindictive she'll be with his daughter. Will she take the baby and run? She was CIA after all. However, that fear cannot hold him in a loveless marriage. Perhaps he should reach out to Mycroft before he tells her. If anyone can possibly protect John's interests, it's Mycroft.

John pauses with his hand on the door; it's time for the happy husband act. With a deep breath, he plasters a seemingly easy grin on his face. He needs to get through the next few days, that's all he can do. 

The house is unusually quiet. Most nights, Mary has the telly on, or she's on the phone. Willa would be babbling from her high chair while tossing cereal on the floor. Tonight, the house is quiet, eerily still. Did Mary go out with Willa? 

Down the hallway, John sees the light on in the kitchen. Slowly, he follows it to find Mary at the kitchen table with her head in her hands.

His heart stops. Something horrible has happened.

"What's wrong? Where's Willa?" He asks.

Mary doesn't look up from a tattered piece of paper on the table. "She's with Mrs. Hudson. She'll be home soon." Her voice cracks.

"Mary?" John steps forward then freezes when he recognises the worn piece of paper before her. "Where did you get that?"

"I was putting away laundry today. Your shorts and socks were all over the place, so I took everything out to reorganise it. There it was, at the very back." Mary pushes her chair back to finally look him in the eye. 

"Did it have your name on it?" John feels the anger bubbling from deep within the place he usually locks it.

"Looks like you've read this a few times." She runs a feathered crease in the center of the letter.

John swallows hard, he doesn't like the way she handles Sherlock's last letter to him. Those were Sherlock’s intimate thoughts, and she has no right to touch them. 

He clears his throat. "Perhaps. It's none of your business, really."

Mary's laugh is cold and bitter. "A love letter to MY husband is not my business?"

"Because it has my name on it, not yours!" John rages.

"If you had found a letter like that to me from another man, maybe David..from the wedding....how would you feel?" Mary asks.

She has him there. Right now, he would feel relief. He wouldn’t feel guilty for loving Sherlock or for making a date with another man. They could parts ways and not look back.

Before the wedding, Sherlock had told John about David's unusual interest in Mary. For a few moments, he felt angry and jealous but that emotion passed quickly. Certainly sooner the bitterness he experienced when he saw Janine in Sherlock's shirt. He realises now that uneasiness was jealousy. To this day, he still wonders the real story behind that. 

"Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised. But if something had been addressed to Mary, or A.G.R.A I would have been respectful."

Her eyes narrow in indignation. "I thought we moved beyond that."

John looks down at the table. "I'm not sure that is something one can simply 'get over'."

"Do you remember what you said last Christmas? All that talk of the future?" 

John pinches the bridge of his nose. "I wanted to believe that but..."

"This?" Her finger jabs at the letter. "This happened?"

John's hands curl into tight fists, "Mary, he's dead because of you!" His left hand crashes against the wooden table top. 

She stands so fast that the heavy wood chair crashes backwards. "Mycroft sent him off, not me!" Her blonde curls bounce angrily around her contorted face. 

John places his hands on the table to lean forward. "He was sent away because of what he did for you! Magnussen was going to ruin you, have Sherlock and me sent away for treason. He pulled that trigger for you!"

With a hollow cackle, she shakes her head vigorously. "No, if we're going to play the blame game, it's wasn't ME he was protecting." She points to the paper on the table. "If I had any doubts, that sodding letter made it crystal clear. It's you, and it was always you." 

John knows that she's correct. Sherlock killed to save Mary thinking it would save John in the end. They both had taken a life to save the other. It would almost be romantic if Sherlock had not died and they had ended up together. 

"I knew when he came back that he'd be problematic. The way he instantly demanded and got your attention. But he was a distraction so that I could finish Magnussen once and for all. I'd be free to live a normal life with you and our child." She paces in front of the table. "Then Sherlock Bloody Holmes turned up, with you trailing after him as always. I couldn't finish what needed to be done." She stops to look at John. "Do you realise that if you both hadn't been there, he'd be dead mysteriously and Sherlock would be alive?"

"Do you think they wouldn't find you?" John crosses his arms in front of his chest.

Mary cocks her head with a sly smirk. "John, please. You forget who I am." She closes her eyes. "Was."

John's head spins - she's not being completely daft. He's thought about this before - wishing that Janine hadn't let Sherlock up, that they had been ten minutes later and had stumbled upon Magnussen's dead body.

"But back to the topic at hand." She snatches the letter to carefully inspect the creases. "How many times did you read this?"

It's pointless to lie now. "Every day for months." His voice breaks with the memory of the first time he read Sherlock's words.

She glances up with a hard face. "That's not a normal reaction for someone who was just a friend, is it?"

It is John's turn to snort a humourless laugh. "You're going to tell me what's normal?" He knows that Mary holds a piece of himself in what he thought were delicate hands. Now he sees them as hands of a killer, not the hands of a loving mother and doting wife. 

"I knew it! I thought that maybe I was a bit off because this is Sherlock who's never understood emotions or boundaries. I thought he was just deducing you when he gazed at you. But I probably knew the night of the bonfire." She sighs. "And the wedding. That speech was certainly touching," she says snidely.

John's nails dig into his palms painfully. He longs to pry her fingers away but he has to remain in control. The paper is so thin that the slightest movement could tear it in half. 

"So it's clear that he loved you." Her eyes scan the paper. "And given by the wear and tear of this paper....."

"Mary," he manages to choke out. He's warring between anger and pity for his wife.

John never meant for this when they met. He thought she was pretty, funny, smart and everything he needed after Sherlock left. He had been so certain that she was the one, until he saw Sherlock standing before him in that ridiculous waiter disguise. Though John punched him repeatedly in the face, the urge to knot his fingers in those impossible curls and shove his tongue deep inside Sherlock's mouth to stop the cavalier explanations and excuses bubbled closer the surface than he admitted at the time. 

"If I'd been smart I would've bowed out early. I knew Sherlock was most likely gay." She looks over to John. "You, I thought it was hero worship. How long have you loved him?"

John grips the back of the chair in front of him. the tension from his shoulders bleed into the wood as it creaks under his hands. "I don't know exactly....a long time."

"Why did you waste my time?" She sighs.

"Mary, we have a daughter. Do you really regret this?" He asks.

"I regret missing by a centimeter, but I would always be competing with a dead man, wouldn't I?" She raises an eyebrow. 

John's rage flares up with a blinding intensity thinking of how close Mary's bullet came to ending Sherlock's life. 

"He said you saved his life, but we both know that was meant to be a fatal shot," John snarls.

Mary shakes her head. "If I wanted him dead, I'd have shot him between the eyes. I am a professional killer after all. I gave him a chance, yes. At the time, I don't know what I wanted. While I didn't want to be responsible for killing your friend, I wanted him out of our lives."

To hear her speak of Sherlock, a man who sacrificed himself to give her the life she has now, sickens John.

"You are filled with so much hate and fear. What part of you is the woman I fell in love with?" John shakes his head.

"I am here! Jesus Christ John, I have been right here waiting for you to look at me the way you did before Magnussen, before fucking Sherlock Holmes came back to take you away. Sure, you’re here standing in my kitchen. Your heart is here.” Mary closes her fist around the letter. The crackle of the paper causes John to cringe as he thinks of Sherlock’s beautiful words being crushed in Mary’s hand. 

"Stop!" He shouts, feeling her fist squeezing his heart.

"Are you serious? This," her hand balls up the letter, "is more important than us?"

"You have done nothing but lie to me from the first moment we met. Your name, your accent - which you insist on continuing though it's bloody awful - your past, friends. Everything is a lie!" John knows he should try to keep his cool. 

Helplessly he watches Mary turn Sherlock's letter into a tight ball. He knows the paper is worn thin from unfurling and folding. He's been gentle with the precious letter knowing it's the last piece of Sherlock that he'll have. Watching it be destroyed by the woman he chose over Sherlock is killing him.

"My love for you was never a lie. I did everything I could to keep you by my side. I would have killed for you. Don't you see how much you mean to me, how much I love you?" She steps closer with pleading eyes.

"You show love in a completely arse backwards way." He motions between them. "This is not love, it's codependency!"

That wild murderous look returns in her fiery eyes. "Yes, because it's so much more romantic to declare your love after you're dead to your straight best friend! This is not a movie, John."

The table hinders John as he lunges for the letter that Mary twists and rips it into several pieces. 

"He's gone! He's never coming back!" She shrieks. 

It is a blur to John as he wrestles Mary for the letter. She writhes in his arms while he pries her clenched fingers open. The balled up pieces of the letter scatter across the floor, and they fight to gather them. Skidding across the tile, bumps her with his shoulder sending her flat on her back. With a murderous glare, she quickly rolls over. John sees that former CIA training as she moves with precision from her back to her knees.She screams and beats her fists on his back. He almost doesn't care about hurting her. In fact, it takes every ounce of self control to not pin Mary to the cold tiles and deliver blow after blow to her. Curling his body around what is left of the letter, he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. If he allows his rage to take over, he is not certain either of them will survive. Thinking of Willa, he squeezes his eyes tightly closed and wills her to just leave.

Mary scrambles up, shrieking obscenities as she slams out of the house. John pulls his phone from his back pocket with shaky hands. Quickly, he dials Mrs. Hudson.

"Hello, Mrs. H? I'll be right over to get Willa. If Mary turns up, you must not let her take the baby. I'm calling Mycroft, he owes me a favour. I'll explain everything when I get there. Thank you."

He runs his fingers through his sweat dampened hair. Quickly, he collects all the scraps of the letter from under the table and shoves them into his pocket. He'll try to put it back together after he secures Willa. He's relieved to find that Mary didn't take the car when she flew from the house. He didn't even hear what she screamed as she left. 

In the car, John calls Mycroft. Sherlock's trust fund for Willa ensured that his intrusive brother would always be in John's life. Today, John is thankful for this.

As expected, the voicemail answers.

"Mycroft, it's John Watson. There's been an incident with Mary and I need your help if she seeks custody of Willa. I'm on my way to Baker Street to get the baby from Mrs. Hudson. You know I hate asking, but I can't lose Willa too and I only know half of what Mary is capable of."

 

When John arrives to Baker Street, he is greeted by a blonde man in a bespoke suit and an earpiece.

"Mr. Holmes sent me. He'll be in touch tomorrow." The man nodded.

Mr. Holmes means Mycroft now, not Sherlock, John thinks mournfully. 

"Leave it Mycroft to send a bodyguard instead of returning a phone call," John mutters.

Mary has made no contact with Mrs. Hudson or turned up to claim Willa. He finds her crawling on the floor in her bee pyjamas, babbling. When she hears John's voice, Willa plops on her bottom and reaches for him.

"Dada!" She cries with glee.

John scoops her up and breathes in the light powder scent of her soft skin.

"What's happened John?" Mrs. Hudson asks, pulling out a kitchen chair for him.

John's not sure why he cries. It's not as if he mourns the end of his love for Mary. Suddenly, he feels bad for Willa and the fact she'll spend her life split between her parents. He wonders how hard Mary will fight for their daughter. Once she discovers that John has the support of the Holmes family, will she go to extreme measures to have Willa?

John collapses into the chair Mrs. Hudson offers and rocks Willa in his arms. He tells Mrs. Hudson about the fight with Mary, and shows her the tattered letter. She makes him some tea and fixes him a plate of her roast. While he eats, Mrs. Hudson carefully mends Sherlock's letter with sellotape. The ache between John's tensed shoulders throbs. Mrs. Hudson offers her lumpy sofa to him, but John knows he can't spend the night at Baker Street, even if it's on the first floor.

Mycroft's agent follows John and Willa home and goes through the house with his gun drawn. John's not certain that is necessary but Mycroft and his people have a better understanding of what Mary is capable of. He holds a sleeping Willa in kitchen amongst the kicked over chairs. 

"Looks like she came home to take some items, sir. The dresser drawers were open and there were some clothes on the bedroom floor." The agent nods.

"Thank you." Willa sighs and stirs in his arms. "I should get her to bed."

"I will be just outside. My partner is watching the other entrance. I've checked all the window locks, you are secure." The agent holsters his gun. He hands John his card. "My number is on the back. Do not hesitate to call."

"Thank you, Agent," John looks at the card. "Carter. I hope I won't need this."

Carter nods again. "I hope not too, Mr. Watson. You'll be sleeping in your daughter's room I suspect."

John's brows furrow together suddenly suspicious. "What makes you say that?"

"You are former military. You will take every precaution to keep your daughter safe," he says.

"Was it the way I carry myself?" John smirks, thinking that every agent who works for Mycroft must take extensive classes in the art of deduction.

"It's in you file, sir." There's a flicker of a grin. "Will you need anything else?"

"No, thank you so much. I'm sorry for you to go through all this bother," John whispers as Willa picks her head up off his shoulder to let it drop back again.

"It's my job, sir. Mr. Holmes will be in touch tomorrow. Good night." With a bow, Carter leaves through the front door.

With a heavy heart and heavier legs, John carries Willa up to bed. Carefully, he places her in the crib and covers her with her favourite Mickey Mouse blanket. She's so peaceful and has no idea about the volatile scene that played out earlier. It feels as though her little hands have reached inside his chest and squeezes his heart. He'll do anything to keep her safe and with him. 

John stands in the doorway to his bedroom with his hands on his hips. Mary must have been in quite a hurry, and possibly not alone. It was odd that she never attempted to call Mrs. Hudson or check in on Willa. Troubling and telling, as far as he’s concerned and hopefully any judge that Mycroft could convince should it come to that. 

John goes around the room to close dresser drawers and toss Mary's discarded dresses into her wardrobe. He grabs two pillows and the duvet from the bed to bring into Willa's room.


	55. Chapter 55

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock runs a hand through his newly trimmed hair. He had asked Carter to arrange for a barber to come to the house to clean up the scraggly ends of his curly hair. Since the accident, he had taken to cutting off bits when it annoyed him, but it had left him looking like a mangy dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for waiting patiently while I hopefully get it this chapter right. It was so long that I had to break it into two. 
> 
> Once again, a major thank you to my betas who really push me. I have to remember that my first thought is just dirty, not bad and they are helping me clean it up a bit. They battle my phone's autocorrect and my general 'eh, I'll fix that later'. 
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful friends on Twitter who encourage me even if I feel like I'm using a large crayon some days. 
> 
> And of course to the readers who even give this story a passing glance. It became a bit grander than I planned, but I am very glad you are enjoying it. 
> 
> Any questions - I'm on Twitter @punkroxmum
> 
> Have a lovely weekend!

Sherlock runs a hand through his newly trimmed hair. He had asked Carter to arrange for a barber to come to the house to clean up the scraggly ends of his curly hair. Since the accident, he had taken to cutting off bits when it annoyed him, but it had left him looking like a mangy dog. 

Of course Mycroft noticed.

"Taken an interest in grooming again? What's the occasion?" 

Knowing only lies have details, Sherlock just made a glib remark about going to the club for companionship. He knows that Mycroft is squeamish about any reference to sex. It seemed to have deflected his brother as he switched to discussing the flash drive instead. 

Two days ago, Mycroft brought over the contents of the flash drive retrieved from the last victim - the birth and death announcements from January 19, 2011. Sherlock had cross checked the victims with the announcements of the day, and none of them matched with any of the relatives of the babies or the deceased. He had searched for anything that could connect the victims with date of death, or vicinity of where the bodies were found. Each of the victims autopsy photos are accompanied by the evidence found buried in their corpses.

Now Sherlock stares at the wall above his desk while sipping his tea. The case wall has grown from over his bed to the opposite wall over his desk. Mycroft shakes his head every time he sees another piece of paper tacked to his wallpaper. Papers overlap with red yarn connecting pictures. Some files have been circled with black pen, while others are crossed out with red marker.

He pulls his phone from the pocket of his dressing gown. Four days ago, he had made a date with Mike, but a lot can happen in four days. 

Four nights ago, Mike messaged him later than usual - just as Sherlock began to have doubts again. Mike told him that he and his wife had a rather large row. He wouldn't say why, but that it had been coming for a long time. The wife packed a bag and left the house and their son. Secretly, Sherlock was thrilled as one of the biggest obstacles between them had been potentially removed. He wondered how long that would last. Mike seemed very certain that the marriage was over. He was going to contact a lawyer the next morning to start the process of divorcing his wife. Sherlock cringed when Mike suggested that David represent him. Sherlock had to assure him that was not the type of law David practiced. 

It is four days later and Mike has still not heard from his wife. While he says he's relieved, Sherlock imagines that he's also concerned. What mother leaves her child with no contact? Mike says that he's tried calling but only gets her voicemail. 

While in his hand, Sherlock's phone lights up with a message.

Mike: I'm sorry, love. I don't think our date can happen. I have no babysitter 

David: I understand. You need to settle your family first 

Mike: while I'm relieved that she's gone, I wish she’d waited until after we had the chance to meet

David: it's better this way. We can meet with no one holding us back.

Mike: true. Leave it to you to find the silver lining

David: are you still concerned?

Mike: my wife is a little unpredictable. It was a trait that probably attracted me, but I'm worried she's planning something 

David: like kidnapping?

Mike: I'm being paranoid, I know

David: you said your wife was a nurse too. What kind of resources would she have?

Mike: you never know what a woman scorned will do

David: true. I know I've asked before, but did you tell her about me? Is that what caused this?

Mike: no, it wasn't you. This was something in the past. Sometimes you can't let it go

Mike has mentioned infidelity in the marriage at some point. He guessed that it was the wife, but perhaps not. Maybe Sherlock is not Mike's first time straying.

Mike: the baby is up from his nap. Chat later tonight? It can still be a date night. I'll be available after 8

David: let me know when you're free

Mike: until later love

David: I look forward to it

Sherlock smiles every time Mike uses an endearment. He wonders if Mike is generally affectionate? How will he respond to being touched or hearing endearments? He's never been in a proper relationship, if this is the path he and Mike are heading down. 

The phone rings while still in Sherlock's hand. "Mycroft?"

"A car should be there to pick you up in fifteen minutes." Mycroft's voice is tighter than usual.

"Fifteen minutes? Another victim?" Sherlock looks to his wall again. There's something about the candor of Mycroft's voice that is terribly off. "What's different this time?"

"It was just brutal. Be certain that you are ready for the car." Mycroft disconnects the call before Sherlock can ask more questions.

Quickly, Sherlock strips out of his pyjama pants and threadbare shirt to slip into dark grey trousers and black dress shirt. Disdainfully, he shoves his arms into a black hooded sweatshirt instead of a nice sleek suit coat. Though the sun has set, he needs to be careful when entering the hospital morgue. Each time he visits is another chance he could be spotted by someone from his past. 

He wonders if Mike would ever consider country living. Perhaps a small cottage with a big yard for Mike's little lad and space a safe distance away for an apiary. In the country, Sherlock could be rid of face masks and hoods. 

A horn outside in the street brings Sherlock back to the present. He gives his head a small shake to delete the silly dreams from his mind. He needs his razor sharp focus for the task at hand. He gives the wall of victims and clues one last look before grabbing his Belstaff and rushing down the stairs. 

Sherlock is surprised to see another agent behind the wheel.

"Where's Carter?" He asks with a slight frown. The night is already feeling disjointed from his postponed date with Mike to Mycroft's terse voice.

"He was on another assignment, sir. He's on his way to the hospital." The dark haired agent glances over his shoulder. 

Sherlock pulls his phone from his pocket. 

Where is Carter and who is this? SH

Carter is with me and that is Agent Roth. Attached are we? MH

Walk a mile in my shoes and then talk to me about security, brother mine. SH

There is no response from Mycroft. How could his brother possibly know what Sherlock's day to day life is like? He's never had to pretend that he's dead. Mycroft can move through the country, even the world with ease.

Sherlock closes his eyes to review the evidence thus far. Five victims with clues to who they were or who the killer is? Why does the killer target them? A Chinese shopkeeper, a secretary in a bank, a security guard, pool attendant 

"We're here, Mr. Holmes," Roth announces when the car stops.

The hospital is busier than Sherlock would like with custodial workers gathered by the loading docks smoking. He pulls his hood over his head and waits for Roth to declare the 'all clear'. A tinge of excitement runs through him because there is always the chance of being discovered. Sherlock's heart races a little as he slips into the cold November air. He steals a glance at the workers chatting on their break and notices a tiny earpiece in each of their ears. Mycroft has gone to a lot of trouble to keep Sherlock's path to the morgue clear of problems.

"Sir." Carter appears at the heavy double doors.

"Carter, what have I said about that?" Sherlock sighs as he pushes past him.

"I know, but this is not the place for proper names," Carter replies.

Sherlock nods. "Of course. Is my brother here?"

"He is, sir."

Sherlock stops to look Carter in the eye. "You can drop the 'sir'."

"Fair enough. However we are on a tight schedule." Carter presses his hand to the small of Sherlock's back to urge him on.

Sherlock picks up on the tightness in Carter's voice and wonders if this other assignment is stressful - more so than babysitting him. Has Carter seen the victim? Perhaps the killer is becoming desperate and leaving the bodies a mess, or he has taken to desecration. It would be the next step to start carving messages into the skin. It is always an unpleasant escalation no matter how many times Sherlock has witnessed it.

Mycroft stands beside the victim with Dr. Ian on the other side. When he sees Sherlock enter, he rushes to block access to the body. Sherlock whips off his hood, trying to see around his brother.

"What's going on, Mycroft?" He glances at the sullen expressions around the room, but combined with Mycroft’s greyer than usual complexion raises goose flesh on his unscarred skin.

"I want you to be prepared for this....I probably should have said something on the phone." Mycroft's eyes are unfocused, flitting from the doors to floor.

"What's happened?" Sherlock's throat closes as he tries to see the body.

"I'm sorry." Mycroft steps aside to clear a path to the table.

Slowly, Sherlock inches forward. A wave of relief sweeps over him when he sees that the victim is female. For a half second, he panicked thinking that John was stretched out on the cold metal table. However his relief quickly fades when he sees blonde curls. 

The last time he had seen Mary's eyes this vacant he had been staring down the barrel of her pistol. Her endless midnight eyes stare blankly up at the light buzzing over her body. Sherlock feels as if all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. Mary. Of all the people walking the streets of London, the killer snatched her.

"I should have told you," Mycroft says weakly. 

Sherlock's clinical brain hasn’t kick in yet. John. Willa. What will they do now? Only last week Sherlock had taken a peek at John's Facebook page. The last update had been a picture the family at an autumn market - all smiles and cozy jumpers. Now John is a widower and Willa is motherless.

"I know this is a shock, but I need you to examine the body. I've held off the police informing John, but they won’t for much longer." Mycroft places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

With a shaky intake of breath, Sherlock nods numbly looking at Mary's dead naked body before him. 

"Gloves," he croaks weakly as he shrugs off his overcoat.

He blinks away the shock and sets about to his work. When the gloves snap on, he removes emotion from his mind and detaches himself from his actions.

"Female victim, 38 year old." He closes his eyes for a second and takes in a deep breath of preserving chemicals and disinfectant.

"One injection site in the left carotid artery. Suggests she was drugged. Scuffs on the knees. Probably dropped then dragged on pavement." Sherlock wonders how the killer could possibly take an ex-CIA operative by surprise. 

"Marks around the neck, she was strangled by a two inch belt. That was the cause of death. See the petechial hemorrhaging around the eyes. Swab the neck as the belt was most likely worn by the killer." 

"How do you know that?" Dr. Ian pauses in his notes.

"If it had been new, the marks would be smooth. Do you see some ruts and the subtle differences in pressure and cuts? This was done with an old belt with fraying at the hip bones." Sherlock directs Dr. Ian's attention to the nicks in Mary's neck.

"Have you checked for the clue?" Sherlock looks up expectantly.

Dr. Ian steals a glance at Mycroft. "I was told to wait for you."

"Fine. Let's begin with the mouth." Sherlock parts the victim’s lips to push his fingers down her throat. With his other hand, he probed her neck for evidence of a foreign object. 

"How long ago do you place time of death?" Sherlock removes his fingers and points a small torch up her nose.

"At least 18 hours.The body is in full rigour, helped by the fact that she was drained," Dr. Ian says. "The puncture wound here is three days old."

"He drained her quickly. Both wrists and the neck." Sherlock points out the holes where tubes drained the blood. 

"What does he do with the blood?" Dr. Ian asks. 

"Possible blood bank. Victim’s blood types have varied." There is no clue in either the nasal cavity or throat. 

"Why would he leave clues?" 

"Serial killers crave an audience. I'm sure he is distressed that the police haven't released any information to the press. It's more than just collecting blood." Sherlock looks up at Mycroft. "Was she reported missing? Has anyone talked to John?"

"From the CCTV feeds, she was seen leaving the house with a suitcase a few days ago," Mycroft answers. "She was not reported missing."

Sherlock frown deepens. "Troubling indeed. What was her mood?"

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. "Her mood?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes in frustration. "Was she calm? Agitated? Was she stalking from the house? Did a friend pick her up? Has anyone looked for the case?" With each question his voice rises to a near shout.

Mycroft pulls out his phone to tap out a message. "I will get you a copy of the tapes. However time is expiring, Sherlock."

Soon John would be here to identify the body of his wife - Willa's mother. A burning desire to be there for John cinders his soul to ashes. How can he, he's dead after all? 

Lately Sherlock has had several regrets about agreeing with Mycroft's decision to declare him as deceased. At first, he had missed being a part of John's world - even if it was on the fringes. Then came the realisation that he could not even be part of London due to his inability to blend in or don the art of disguise. When Mike came into his life, he had regretted the fact that he had to hide his true identity in fear of being discovered as Sherlock Holmes, the once great detective. He had thought he was moving past the lies to a new life with another extraordinary man. Instead, he has created a new world with different lies. 

Gazing at the lifeless body of Mary, he wants nothing more to be reborn again for John. He knows that he could never be part of John's life in the way he always longed to be, but to even be of some comfort to his dear friend, a shoulder or someone to rage against - anything but a useless corpse.

"I need to find the clue, there's always a clue." Sherlock thinks to where the killer might have hidden it. The nose and throat would be too obvious, too mundane now. His eyes scan the expanse of ashen flesh before him. No visible incisions in the sides or abdomen.

"Pass me the torch please." Sherlock's throat instantly goes dry thinking of the body's hiding places. He moves from the head to the pelvic area. "Help me with the legs."

Sherlock never thought he would ever see the soft pale flesh just above Mary's pelvis or the dark curls between her legs. She had a wax roughly two weeks ago. He tries to not think of John thrusting between her heavy thighs as Sherlock places a hand on her leg.

"You don't think..." Dr. Ian's voice trails off before mentioning the unmentionable.

"It has to be somewhere," Sherlock says, gravely. 

There is no bruising on the thighs to indicate the killer forced sexual intercourse, and for that Sherlock is relieved. The very last thing that John needs is for his wife to have been raped along with murdered and drained of blood. 

“We need get the legs open.” Sherlock turns to Dr. Ian impatiently.

"Are you suggesting...?" The doctor starts with alarm.

"Finish a sentence for God's sake. Yes, we will have to break some bones. I need to look into the vagina." Sherlock refuses to use 'her' or 'she'. For now, it is just a body, another victim. 

Dr. Ian glances over his shoulder to Mycroft. "Sir?"

"Do exactly as he instructs," Mycroft snaps impatiently.

With a resigned sigh, he helps Sherlock pull the victim's legs apart with a sickening crack. A sudden wave of nausea overtakes Dr. Ian.

Sherlock shifts his gaze to the sallow man beside him. "Step away if you must."

With a nod, Dr. Ian moves away from the body for some fresher air.

Sherlock steels himself, breathing through his mouth. He glances over his shoulder. "Carter, can you hold the torch? Dr. Ian isn't quite up to the task."

The doctor tosses him a rueful glare before backing away.

"Yes, sir." Carter steps forward and takes the torch from Sherlock. 

"Thank you," Sherlock mutters.

"Time brother," Mycroft taps his watch.

"Do whatever you need to do to postpone, just let me do what you brought me here to do." 

Sherlock inserts two fingers into the cold body. This is just a victim, he tells himself. Just another case. He forces past the opening into the unyielding flesh. His index finger brushes something foreign in the vagina. It definitely does not feel like a cotton feminine product; he has encountered those in an autopsy before. The glove makes it difficult to feel the texture, but it has the flexibility of plastic bag. His attempt to pinch two fingers around fail as they slip, unable to get a grip.

"Do you have a clamp or something? I can't grab it." Sherlock holds his free hand out.

"Something is in there?" Dr. Ian's voice trembles. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I actually miss Molly."

"Here." Carter hands Sherlock a long silver clamp with a curved end.

With a pointed look to Dr. Ian, Sherlock replies, "thank you."

Sherlock struggles to slide the clamp beside his fingers. Despite the cool air of morgue, sweat collects along Sherlock's brow as he tries time after time to retrieve the bag. Mycroft shifts and opens his mouth in Sherlock's peripheral vision. 

"I know. I'm moving as fast as I can!" He snaps.

Finally, he withdraws the plastic bag clenched in the clamp's jaws. Discarding the clamp to the floor with a clatter, he holds the bag up to Carter's torch.

"It's a map, a Tube map." He opens the bag.

"That is evidence, Sherlock." Mycroft steps forward.

"You are joking, right? You brought me to perform the autopsy of a friend and you won't let me take what I need to catch this bastard?"  
The pain and guilt Sherlock has pushed down to do the Work erupts like a volcano.

"I will get it to you, along with the tapes. But I've just been informed that Dr. Watson is on his way." Mycroft opens a clear bag marked 'EVIDENCE'. "We must go."

"I'm not done! I need more time." Sherlock implores.

"Tomorrow. Not tonight, brother." He places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "We need to get you out of here unseen."

He knows Mycroft is right. If John were to see Sherlock looming over the body of his wife, there would be no healing him from the shock and that betrayal. He knows John has endured so much pain in the last three years, and there's Willa to consider. The girl needs her father to be right.

Numbly, Sherlock nods as the shock of the evening is finally crashing in around him. His eyes pull up to Mary's face once more, finally regarding her as a person and not a case. He wished she looked peaceful for John, but Sherlock could see the terror in the frozen muscles of her face. She knew she was going to die. 

"The car is ready. We have exactly eight minutes before Dr. Watson and Detective Lestrade arrive." Carter announces.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispers and lays a hand in her cold skin. 

Carter holds out the dark wool coat for Sherlock. "Sir."

"Are you taking me home?" He asks.

Carter glances to Mycroft who gives a short nod. "Yes sir."

Sherlock doesn't care what assumptions Mycroft is making about the nature of his ease with Carter. 

"Let's go then. Mycroft, I want everything tonight."

"It might have to wait until tomorrow morning," Mycroft says.

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow as he rounds on his brother. His hand clenches and releases in frustration. "I'll have Carter take me to the London house to wait for you."

"Not necessary. I'll get what you need to the Cambridge residence as soon as possible." Mycroft asserts.

Sherlock pulls the dark hood over his head. "It's imperative that you do."

Flanked by more agents posing as hospital workers, Sherlock whisks through the dark grey corridor with Carter on his heels. the sound of shoes scraping against the tile as Sherlock and his entourage exit the through heavy metal doors. A sleek black car idles by the loading dock. The temperature has chilled considerably since Sherlock entered the hospital. He can smell the impending cold rain in the wind that threatens to push his hood back. Hunching his taut shoulders, he slips into the warm car and shrugs low in his seat. According to Carter, John and Lestrade are soon to arrive and could be in any passing car. Sherlock doesn't want to see John, or his frantic eyes, or the rigid military man with a job to do. Sherlock is useless to him in every way. 

All the guilt, sorrow and incompetence that Sherlock had suppressed in the morgue bubbles up and over like a boiling pot causing him to gag and cough.

"There's water in the door," Carter says. "Do you need me to pull over?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, I just want to get home. I have a lot of work to do."

He is thankful for the chilled bottle of water. Somehow it quells the nausea a bit. He's more grateful to Carter who cracks his window an inch filling the warm car with refreshing cold air. As his stomach settles, his brain clears and allows him to feel the full weight of what he observed tonight.

Despite the water, Sherlock's mouth is dry like paper. Tears prickle in the corners of his eyes while he stares at his shoes because the passing landscape makes his stomach churn. He should feel more sorrow for Mary's murder. He did help plan her wedding, and had thought himself to be a friend. However the scar and pain in the center of his chest is her fault. And if it hadn't been her past that threatened to destroy John, Sherlock would have never put a bullet in Magnussen's brain - thus he would still be alive for John when Mary died. Yes, this was equally her fault.

His chest felt like an open chasm as he thought of his poor John rushing down that cold cement hallway to identify the remains of his wife, who had been drugged, strangled and drained of every ounce of her blood.

Sherlock presses a shaky hand to his sweat drenched forehead. This was Sherlock's fault also. It was his job to solve the puzzle, to solve the case. A year ago, Sherlock would have been alongside Lestrade and John at each crime scene. He would have interviewed the associates of the victims to have a full picture instead of the fractured pieces he's been given by Mycroft. In short, he’s certain that Mary would still be alive if he wasn’t reduced to hiding in the shadows as a ghost.

Letting out a shaky breath, he presses his palm against his mouth to hold back a soul shaking sob. John. How could he do this to the precious gift to life that is John Watson, the brightest light he's ever known? 

For the last few years, Sherlock has made every decision with John's happiness at the heart of it, yet he continually missteps. If he hadn't fallen years ago, Mary would have never been able to get close to John. Though he had reservations about who this Mary was, he stepped aside - even befriended this assassin - to just be close to John. He killed for her. He died twice for her. All in the name of John's happiness. Where has that left them? John's world has collapsed on a Saturday and Sherlock cannot rise from the ashes to comfort him. 

Now the best man Sherlock has ever known is left alone to care for his young daughter and rebuild his life again. Sherlock's head pounds as his body fights to respond to all the warring emotions inside him.

His phone buzzes.

The CCTV files will be at the house within two hours. There is coffee and a light supper waiting for you. You need both. Mycroft 

Sherlock can feel the condescension ooze through his phone. At least when he gets all the paperwork and files, he can find something to tie it all together.

Then he sees another message on the screen.

Mike: hey you

The time stamp was two hours ago when Sherlock was in the morgue.

Mike. With the events of the last few hours, Sherlock had completely forgotten that he was originally meant to be meeting Mike for their first date. Sherlock had never dated before, but he had been willing to try it for Mike.

It is an hour past when Sherlock said they would chat. Despite the intense sorrow he felt for John, he had to remember that he was working on putting his own life back together with Mike. The only way he could help John now was to bring his wife's killer to justice. As much as he desperately wants, there is no place in John's life for Sherlock.

David: I'm sorry. I was called to the office to look over a case. I'll explain when we meet

With a stabbing pain that slices from the base of his neck through to his forehead, Sherlock taps some notes into his phone as he wonders if Mike has heard from his wife. Even though Mike asserts that he is happy she left, Sherlock always holds his breath just waiting for Mike to change his mind.

Sherlock's mind wanders to Mary and her suitcase. According to what he knows, Mary left the house willingly for a trip. Where exactly would Mary go without Willa? It's possible that she managed to make genuine friends since last year. Sherlock recalls her side of the church being even thinner than John's. He tries to remember if she ever went on a girl's holiday before they were married. Truthfully, Sherlock never paid attention to Mary's doings if it didn't involve John. He was just so pleased whenever John could escape to Baker Street for a few hours. Then there were the months he returned to care for a recovering Sherlock. It had been so nice having John in his chair again. Not once did he mention the fact that it smelled of smoke from being in Sherlock's room. So many nights Sherlock folded himself in half to sleep in the chair that was just….John.

With great pain, Sherlock shakes his head to bring him out of the haze of memories. Now is not the time to reminisce as he's already failed John in so many ways.

David: are you available later tonight?

While part of him wants to lose himself in the fantasy world he and Mike have created, Sherlock knows he will have to apologise for a pounding headache so that he can work through the night. Perhaps one day, he will confess everything to Mike. Maybe.

His mind pivots to the clue. First, what does the placement tell him about the murderer? Does he hate women? And how did Mary fall prey to him? One, she could have possibly been inebriated thus lowering her defences. Or she was in extreme distress which also compromises her keen senses. After all, Sherlock and John were able to lure her into a trap because the fear of losing John was too great.

As the wheels in his mind turn, Sherlock feels the pressure in his temple ease. So, the most likely option is the Mary left her house in distress. Why?

Quickly, Sherlock pulls up John's Facebook page but nothing has been updated since the picture a few weeks. A photograph only tells one side of the story. His fingers pull across the screen to enlarge the picture of the three of them. He can't see any stress lines on either face indicating that whatever may have happened had escalated quickly. Infidelity is a probable cause of sudden marital discord. Sherlock always suspected that things were not completely over between her and that funny bald man. Did John find evidence and confront her? There is no possible way that John was unfaithful. After his normal barber had gone almost completely blind, John returned for at least a half dozen terrible haircuts until the man closed his shop thereby releasing John from his commitment. No, it couldn't be John.

The phone buzzes again.

Mike: I'm won't be on later

Sherlock's heart sinks. Mike grounds him to the present and he needs him tonight.

David: I have a lot to do. I understand. Is the baby okay?

For now, Mike is a single parent and it's entirely legitimate that Mike needs to care for a sick child.

Mike: baby is fine. I'm at the morgue. 

Sherlock's blood turns to ice. Could it be possible that Mike and John could meet? He shakes his head, nurses don't assist in identifying a body.

Mike: it's my wife. She's dead 

Sherlock blinks rapidly as he reads the message once, twice and again.

David: I'm so sorry Mike. What can I do? 

His mind fills with numbers and equations as he calculates the probability of the impossible, an explanation as to how both Mike and John have dead wives at the morgue. He hears Mycroft's condescending tone as he stands at Mary's body at St. Bart's.

"The universe is rarely lazy, Sherlock."

Mike: I just need time. I don't want to be alone, but I can't meet you like this. 

David: I understand. I will give you all the space you need.

He has to ask even though he doesn't want to know. Right now, there is a slim chance that there are two grieving husbands and that he's connected to both.

David: do you know what happened?

Sherlock closes his eyes and waits for the phone to vibrate.

When he opens his eyes, he can hear John’s voice. 

"She was murdered. It's my fault her life ended at the hands of a serial killer."

Sherlock stomach lurches and he feels the water bubble up in his throat. "Carter, pull over. Now!"


	56. Chapter 56

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike is John and John is Mike. How could he not have seen this? How could it be possible that he would woo a man he loved and not know it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the wonderful response to the last chapter. I know it wasn't what people expected and I was afraid people would feel cheated. Obviously, they will meet face to face, but it won't happen in the easiest or most logical way. 
> 
> Thank you for taking time out of your day to read this and comment or offer kudos. I really do love engaging with you and knowing your thoughts. You make me want to strive to do my best.
> 
> And always, thank you to my betas who offer patience (you really should see the saw honey) and guidance - and definitely a better handle on grammar and Brit-picking.

Mike is John and John is Mike. How could he not have seen this? How could it be possible that he would woo a man he loved and not know it?

"Sherlock?" Carter glances over his shoulder but pulls the car to the kerb in lush Cambridge neighbourhood with a screech.

Sherlock's knuckles slam against the door pulling at the handle violently. He manages to lean out of car before a mixture of water and bile hits the pavement. The headache that had eased to a dull throb returns with a blinding force.

"Sherlock!" Carter is hovering over the coughing detective. "What's wrong?"

Wiping his mouth with the scratchy wool sleeve of his coat, he shakes his head. "Night caught up to me." He feels Carter's hand rest between his shoulder blades.

"What do you need?" He asks.

"To get to the house. We're only ten minutes away. I'll be fine, let’s just go." He straightens his back and closes the door.

The phone buzzes on the floor of the backseat. Quickly he stoops to retrieve it, and his stomach gives another roll with the movement.

Mike: I'm sure you've seen the news about people being killed and drained

Sherlock stares at the phone as if it might explode just knowing that John, his John was in the other side.

Get it together, he admonishes himself. For now, he needs to be David and not the raw nerve ending that Sherlock feels.

David: I am so sorry. Are you certain it was the same killer?

Mike: her blood was drained completely

Sherlock rubs his forehead so hard he's certain to leave red marks.

David: what can I do?

He knows that there is no way he can meet Mike or John now. What if they had gone that far and met? He will never be able to convince John that he was absolutely clueless to Mike's true identity.

Mike: I have to go to the police station. I'm not sure when I'll be home

David: are you still at the morgue?

Mike: I'm sitting outside to get air. It was awful. Part of me wishes that we had met so I could have you here

A sharp pain stabs into Sherlock's sternum as he wants nothing more than to wrap his arms around John.

David: I wish that with every fibre of my being

Mike: can I contact you tomorrow after I've had time and sleep?

David: of course

Sherlock doesn't know what else to say. There's nothing that will remove John's pain. He rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes. This is John, the man he tried to mourn and move on without.

Mike: good night

David: take care and thanks

The car pulls into the semicircular driveway and Sherlock has the door open before it comes to a complete stop. He hits the ground running, crashing through the door and bounding up the stairs to his bedroom where he sheds his coat and paces in circles.

It is too much data to process tonight. The walls of his mind palace shake and groan as if the ground shifts underneath. The pictures on the wall rattle as John's wing inside his mind swallows Mike's room whole - joining all the facts he knew of Mike to the things he loved about John.

He rewinds his mind. John went on holiday with Mary last week, and John was unhappy. They fought and Mary left in a huff with a suitcase. That's why there is no missing persons report.

He backs up further. Mike wasn't a nurse with a son. Why would John lie about himself? What would he have to gain from lying?

Sherlock rubs his forehead vigorously. Why did he lie to Mike, or John? He had a good reason, his face has been in newspapers and on television. Sherlock had been burned and disfigured, so bending his truth made sense.

"Oh God!" His eyes widen in shock while he travels down the hallway of his mind.

He fishes his phone out of his trouser pocket and begins searching beyond the photos of Mary's body he has taken tonight, and just past a photo of the male victim, he found it. Engorged and standing out prominently from dark blond curls was John's penis - a photo taken by his own hand and sent to David. 

At once he is aroused and disgusted by his reaction. How could he not have known? He's seen John naked before. He remembers stumbling back to Baker Street with John at his side. Sherlock had jumped into the Thames after a fleeing suspect. Naturally, John had followed. They lost the suspect and the feeling in their fingers and toes. Quickly, they stripped off their sopping clothes in the sitting room, leaving large puddles of water in the hall. John had insisted that Sherlock get into a lukewarm shower as he 'didn't have enough meat on his bones to sustain him' as John had remarked. Meanwhile, John wrapped himself in a scratchy wool afghan and shivered violently on the sofa. Sherlock remembers stealing a quick glance, but the flat was too dark to see much beyond the dark hair between John's legs. He dared not linger and the moment vanished like smoke.

Sherlock curses his penis for filling with blood and want as he recalls that night and glances at the picture once more before throwing his phone on the bed. His fingers twist in his hair as memories of sex with Mike crash through his mind like a raging river, tearing through the hallways and causing walls to crumble. The reality is too much - he has had sex with John. It might not have been physical but together they have masturbated. Mike has always resembled John in some small way in his mind. Perhaps it was Mike's description of himself or Sherlock holding onto the memory of John that manifested in a vague version of the soldier. 

How could he not know? John had only changed small details of his life. From doctor to nurse, from a daughter to a son. He had described himself as short and blond - and he liked football and television. Of course, only John Watson would enjoy a show as macabre as Hannibal! 

Slumping to the floor, he rests his chin on his knees and curls his arms around his legs. He feels the darkness creeping around the corner with its taunting whispers. It has been awhile since the doubt has visited him - not since Mike slipped in to offer him a ray of hope. Tonight, that ray has been extinguished. What remains is an overwhelming black hole swallowing him alive.

Love is a vicious motivator and provides a horrible blind spot to the truth. He should have died in Russia when the fireball exploded in the hallway. He doesn't remember much except bursting through a closed door and feeling the ground give way beneath him. His next memory was opening his eyes in a stark white room with machines whirring and beeping on both sides of the bed.

If he had died, there would be no David. Would there be a Mike, Sherlock wonders. Would John be chatting with someone else, trying to get over Sherlock's death.

Sherlock's death.

He crawls onto the bed to grab his phone and fingers flick through the private messages that were sent months ago. Mike had talked about losing a friend that he realised he loved too late. Sherlock's blood turns to ice - he was the friend. John was in love with Sherlock and wanted to tell him when he returned from his mission. 

He clutches his chest for the pain is too unbearable, just the knowledge that life could have been different if one of them had been braver, bolder. If he had told John when he returned would Mary have been part of equation? John might not have known what he felt. It could have taken Sherlock leaving for Russia to make John realise his feelings.

Sherlock presses his fingers into the corners of his eyes hard enough to cause discomfort. So much time wasted, so many lies, too much pain. Is love always this difficult, he ponders. Does it always feel like a bullet ripping through flesh and bone to leave a gaping hole in the body?

But what now? John has lost his best friend, his wife and soon, his future with someone new. How can Sherlock meet him as David now? He has to tell him. How can he do that to John? He's already destroyed John in every conceivable way. How can he claim to love when he just continually takes everything this man loves?

Sherlock stares at the files and pictures covering the walls of his bedroom, his current prison. His hands shake from dehydration and a crashing blood sugar. He needs to solve this for John. Perhaps then he can slip into the abyss where he will not hurt or feel pain anymore. The silence of death is strangely comforting and peaceful. John can rebuild his life with Willa and he can love again. 

Sherlock blinks away the tears that prickle - it could have been him that John loved forever. It could have been the two of them solving crimes, mysteries together in every way. It could have been.

Jerking his head away from the wall, he glares at the rain splattered window. Think, he demands. He must think. All these thoughts and mounting guilt only get in the way. Solve the case Sherlock, says Mycroft's voice deep within his mind palace. 

Be brilliant, says John's voice. Be the genius.

Sherlock fists his curls and pulls until his scalp burns.

"Think! Fix everything! Do something!" He shouts at the walls. "Need something. I need something to quiet it all."

He hears the nervous bustling of the housekeeper downstairs. His outburst startles her. And that sore knee bothers her on rainy nights. She must take something when the pain becomes unbearable, something sitting in her bathroom.

“Greta!” he calls from the top of the staircase. A round little woman limps to the foot of the stairs and looks up anxiously. “Can you make some tea and perhaps some toast? I’m working tonight.”

“Yes sir.” She nods and bustles back to the kitchen.

Sherlock nods, the tea and toast should keep her busy for at least fifteen minutes with her aching knee. Quietly, he takes the back staircase to the first room at the bottom, a tiny bathroom with a shower stall, toilet and small mirrored cabinet. What he needs has to be inside here. He hopes it is more than just an anti-inflammatory. A knee that painful must require a narcotic on the bad days. With a steadying breath, he quietly sifts through multiple pill bottles until he finds not one, but two prescriptions that might work in a pinch. They aren’t new, so Greta most likely has not touched them in month and forgotten how many are left. Sherlock takes two from one bottle and three from the other. Swiftly, he shoves the pills into his trouser pockets and pads up the stairs to his room to find his hidden instruments of escape.


	57. Chapter 57

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Normally a crackling fire and single malt scotch is a calming ritual to end the day. Tonight Mycroft stares into the dancing flame and feels anything but calm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your infinite patience while I hopefully get this next chapter right. As I go on in the story, the chapters seem to take more time and thought. Oh, I remember the days of frequent updates. 
> 
> Thank you to all my readers and to those who take time to offer questions or comments. 
> 
> I want to say an huge thank you to the wonderful people who take the time to help me put the right word at the right time to evoke the right emotion. I know I say it all the time, but you make me a better writer. And this fic has made me make some new friends - so that's great too. 
> 
> I post updates on my Twitter @punkroxmum
> 
> Thank you all!

Normally a crackling fire and single malt scotch is a calming ritual to end the day. Tonight Mycroft stares into the dancing flame and feels anything but calm. He has helplessly watched two men collapse in the morgue with no knowledge how to fix it. That's what he does, he fixes things, people and situations. He always has the right name or phone number at the ready. He is the man with all the answers, the smartest man in England. However tonight he is lost thinking about a terrible decision he made months ago and he doesn't know how to fix it. John needs Sherlock and Mycroft has told the poor doctor that he is dead. How can he undo this? 

The front door creeks open. Mycroft hears the flapping of wet material and water droplets hit the marble. The closet door closes with a soft click and the shuffle of cheap oxfords scrape as they draw closer.

"What a bloody awful day." Greg drops into the matching leather chair across from Mycroft. 

Mycroft doesn't move, not to acknowledge Greg or to blink. He cannot tear his eyes from the flames. 

Greg runs his hand through his damp silver hair, then picks up the scotch Mycroft has left on the side table for him.

Finally Mycroft turns his gaze to the rumpled inspector. "How is John Watson?"

Greg shakes his head. "How do you think? He's lost Sherlock and Mary in the same year. I know their marriage wasn't perfect, but she was Willa's mum."

"I know," Mycroft mutters behind his steepled fingers.

"He used to do that, y'know?" Greg motions to Mycroft’s pose as kicks off his wet shoes and stretches his feet towards the fire.

"Gregory, allow me to find a quality pair of shoes for you." Mycroft hates the comparisons to his younger brother even if they are accurate. 

"It's pissing down out there. I'd have wet socks even if I was wearing a pair of those designer loafers you fancy." He motions to the rain pattering off the tall windows.

"Did you see John home?" Mycroft's thoughts return to the problem at hand.

"I did. Mrs. Hudson is staying the night. I might stay tomorrow night. He shouldn't be alone." Greg takes a gulp of the fine scotch. After the day he has seen, he doesn't stop to enjoy its smoothness or the buttery notes at the finish. "Do you have agents stationed at his house?"

"What makes you ask?"

Greg tilts his head. "I know I'm not as smart as you but I know a government vehicle when I see one."

Mycroft nods. "When Mary left, John asked for my help. He was worried for Willa, so I extended my protection."

Greg grins. "No matter what you say, I know you're soft under all the 'good of the country' business. You've a soft spot for John and have since he met Sherlock."

"He was important to my brother." The throbbing ache of guilt sweeps over Mycroft. He washes it down with more scotch, but it only burns his insides like acid. He glances over to Greg with the firelight flickering in his soft features. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "Gregory, there's something I need to tell you."

Greg's eyebrows knit together with worry. "What's wrong?" 

Mycroft rubs his face a few times before he starts. There is no way to sugarcoat the truth.

"Sherlock is not dead," is all he says. He looks up for Greg's reaction.

"I'm sorry, but what?" Greg’s face twists in confusion.

"It is true that Sherlock was involved in a terrible blast in Russia. The building was destroyed and yes, many people died. Sherlock was not one of them, though." Mycroft braces himself for the anger that is sure to be coming.

Now Greg leans forward. "Wait, let me get this straight. There was an accident but he didn't die. Then what the bloody hell happened? Is he in a coma so he's not technically dead but might as well be because he's a vegetable?" 

Mycroft slowly shakes his head. "He's in Cambridge at my house there."

Greg springs to his feet. "What the hell are you playing at, Myc?" His heart races double time as he attempts to process the words.

Mycroft settles back against the leather. "As I said, there was a blast and Sherlock was in the building. He was very badly burned and suffered a head injury. The doctors weren’t certain he would survive or in what capacity."

"Jesus. What the fuck?" Greg paces in front of the fire. "Why would you? I mean, how could you? To John or, to me?"

"Gregory, you must understand that when I made this decision, I had no way of knowing if he'd recover. I didn't know if there would be brain damage. I just thought it best, that he start over," Mycroft scrambles to explain.

"Start over?" Greg rounds on him. 

Mycroft shakes his head wearily. "You haven't seen him. He wouldn’t be able to bear the pity or the disgust."

"You'd do this to his friends? To John? To me?" Greg looms over Mycroft in his chair with his eyes in narrow slits. His fists are itching to make contact with Mycroft’s perfect nose. 

"It was an enormous mistake." Mycroft's voice cracks.

Greg turns away to look at the rain outside. The night seems even colder now.

"This has to be a sick joke. Nope. I don't believe you." Greg shakes his head.

Wearily, Mycroft takes his phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He opens a file within his pictures marked 'Russia'. "This is him."

Greg grabs the phone and walks to the firelight. Though Mycroft had mentioned blast and fire, he is not prepared for the photo of Sherlock in a stark white hospital bed. Half his dark curls are singed while the other half are cut to the scalp. His flesh is red, angry and charred black in some spots. Greg’s hand flies over his mouth in horror. The burn extends across Sherlock’s face, down his neck and covers half his chest. The late night coffee gurgles in Greg’s stomach, threatening to join the few sips of Scotch on Mycroft’s silk rug. The pity that Sherlock would loathe bubbles up inside and he wants to hug his friend and tell him it will be alright - except it is not.

"How much?" Greg looks up to see an expression on Mycroft's face that he's never seen before: grief.

"Was burned?" Mycroft asks. "Most of his right side. He has undergone several skin grafts and operations but he is badly scarred."

Greg flicks through photographs of Sherlock's progress from charred skin to bandages to red scars. Shaking his head in disbelief and disgust, he tosses the phone to Mycroft.

"In Cambridge you say? Show me." 

"I did show you." Mycroft motions to his phone.

Greg crosses his arms in front of his chest. "I want to see him with my own eyes."

With a flick of his wrist, Mycroft glances at his watch. "It's past midnight."

Greg sits at the edge of the chair and begins to put on his damp shoes. "Knowing your brother he won't be sleeping." He pauses. "What is he doing in Cambridge?"

"Trying to heal," Mycroft sniffs defiantly.

Greg rolls his shoulders. "Is he the one working for you? You refer to having agents aiding this investigation but it’s been him, all this time?" 

"I think you know the answer to that." Mycroft looks to the fire. His fingers curl into the leather. Chewing on his bottom lip, he refuses to even steal a glance to Greg.

"He was the one that found the bloody clues. I should have known that only a Holmes would suss that out." Greg runs his fingers through his hair. "He was there tonight, wasn't he?"

"You know the answer to that as well," Mycroft responds gravely.

"Jesus Christ, Myc." Once again, Greg is on his feet and pacing the length of the den. "How long have we been together and you didn't think to tell me?"

"I'm telling you now. I realise that I have made a grave mistake in convincing Sherlock that being dead was the least painful course for him."

"Are you serious? This was best? You convinced him to play dead? What about your parents?" Greg's voice raises with every question.

"Only some in Sherlock's circle were told he had died." Mycroft swallows the dry lump in his throat. "I thought he might be rejected or seen as less. That would slowly kill him. This way he could start over and have a different life."

"I don't believe this. Get up." He grabs Mycroft's arm and pulls him to standing. "We're going to Cambridge."

"Now?" Mycroft frowns. "I will bring you in the morning. You've had a long day..." 

"Yes, now. I need to speak to Sherlock. Now." Greg stalks to the front closet and pulls both of their coats out.

"My driver is in bed," Mycroft stalls.

"I don't care. I have my car. Let's go." 

Mycroft wrinkles his nose. "You expect me to get in that tin can you call an automobile?"

"I will find this house, Mycroft Holmes. I will call in every resource I have and charge you with fraud." Greg throws Mycroft's coat at him. 

"Impossible. He was never declared legally dead." Mycroft says coolly.

Greg stands nose to nose with him. "You'll take me there or I will walk out of this house and you will never see me again."

The cool facade melts away to trepidation as Mycroft's eyebrows shoot up and his mouth hangs open. Greg's voice has been reduced to a growl that Mycroft can feel vibrate against his breastbone. 

"I'll call Sherlock to prepare him." Mycroft slips his arms into the black trench coat.

Greg nearly rips the seams of his raincoat as he angrily stuffs his arms in. How could he be so close to Mycroft in some ways and be so incredibly in the dark about this? John has said their parents were both lovely and kind people, but how could they raise two of most emotionally clueless men in England?

Without glancing at Mycroft, he stalks into the driving rain to pull the car door open with such violence force, it springs back to slam close.

"Fuck!" Greg growls.

"Perhaps I should drive," Mycroft suggests from under his umbrella.

"Get in the fucking car." 

Mycroft ignores the prickle of arousal under his bespoke suit hearing Greg’s command. He files this new sensation for later when Greg will actually look at him.Wordlessly, he climbs onto the coffee stained front seat beside the seething inspector whose nostrils are still flaring as he starts the car with stuttering roar.

"We can take my car." Mycroft offers, he's not certain Greg's car will survive the journey.

"Shut up, Myc. Just shut up," Greg snaps as he jerks the car onto the road. Mycroft winces at the sound of tires screeching on the wet tarmac.

Mycroft makes a note in his mind office to have Greg's car meticulously detailed over the weekend - hopefully to erase the stale stench of cigarette smoke and fast food grease from the upholstery.

"You saw John tonight. You were there when he saw his wife. He needed a friend. No he needed more than a friend, he needed Sherlock in whatever state he's in!" Greg shakes his head.

"I realise that now. I was only doing what I thought was best." Mycroft stares out the window. He's not accustomed to being scolded. 

"What did Sherlock do when he saw Mary?" Greg asks.

"He does what he always does, he looks for the clues." Mycroft shrugs casually.

Greg pulls the car over with a jerk so sharp that the tire hits the kerb. Mycroft's hand flies up to steady himself against the dusty dashboard.

Greg slams the car into park then twists to fix Mycroft with a deadly glare. 

"How could you leave him alone?" He rages.

"John?"

"No Sherlock, you posh arsehole! You have isolated him from the people who love and support him! You're using his brain, but have left him completely alone! Why aren't you there for him tonight?" His voice bounces off the metal walls of the car like a loud bell.

"You think you know my brother? He doesn't think or operate the way normal people do. He doesn't feel as deeply or hurt in the same way. And in moments of emotional turmoil, he prefers to be alone to process the facts." Mycroft stares down his long nose at Greg. While deep down, he is certain that Greg is only thinking of Sherlock - how dare he assume that he does not understand his own brother?

"One of the reasons you've hid him from the world is because you are afraid of how he'll be treated. Donovan and others have called him freak among other things. Now you're afraid he'll believe it because he stands out. People will take notice of the scars first and you were afraid he couldn't handle that!"

 

Mycroft looks up and sighs . "I didn't know....I wasn't certain how he'd respond to rejection or disgust or pity. What he'd do. I could not lose him again." 

 

Greg feels at a loss with his admission. Mycroft Holmes never admits that he is wrong. "Myc, we'll somehow get through this. All of us. But right now, we need to get to Sherlock and make sure he's alright. We need to get him back to his life." He reaches over to pat a bony knee. "One thing at a time. Call him, let him know we're on our way." Greg puts the car in gear and continues down the road.

How did he end up here, driving the most influential man in England in a blinding rain storm to see his not so dead brother? But Sherlock is alive, he thinks. Greg can make this right, somehow. Sherlock and John desperately need one another - now more than ever.

Mycroft looks down at his phone. An automated voicemail system starts. "I doubt he's sleeping."

"You're calling, of course he's not going to answer." Greg mutters.

Mycroft shoots an exasperated glare to the driver. "He is expecting files and evidence."

Greg thumps the wheel. "You're the one taking my bloody evidence bags. How could I be so stupid? No, don't answer that."

"I think we've had other things to distract us," Mycroft mutters with a hint of fondness. 

The understanding between them is that they never really address the subject of them. Greg comes to Mycroft's house and his bed, but they never talk about what happens between the sheets, or in the shower or against an antique cherry desk. It just happens and everyone involved is satisfied. 

"How will he take this, I mean, us?" It was the one thing that might have prevented this from ever occurring - Sherlock. Greg couldn't imagine the detective accepting the relationship. 

"That is nothing I'm about to address until he brings it up. One thing at time, Gregory." Mycroft taps a message into his phone - alerting Sherlock to call him immediately about the case. 

Greg opens his mouth to tell Mycroft that he will need to explain why Greg has been been privy to their - and at this hour of the night, but he stays silent. Until a few months ago, he only knew Mycroft Holmes as the pushy older brother with a pinched expression. Greg had thought they were finding solace in each other's company. Was Mycroft just finding distraction from his guilt? Greg thinks back to the endless nights they've spent together - they had never really talked much about Sherlock's death. The only emotion Mycroft repeated, and with some conviction, was that he missed his brother. After looking at the pictures of Sherlock's scars, Greg believes that Mycroft truly misses who Sherlock was before the blast.

Mycroft shifts and fiddles in the passenger seat as if he can't get comfortable. 

"Used to the backseat?" Greg glances over.

Greg's answer is a piercing stare from Mycroft. With a casual shrug, he wipes at the fog collecting on the inside of the windshield while Mycroft goes back to tapping away on his phone. 

Sherlock is alive, Greg marvels. He didn't believe it at first, but when John had shown him the file with gruesome photos of a badly burned body, he had to give up hope that it was just another Holmes trick of the eye. 

Now in less than hour, he would be able to wrap his arms around the annoying git and tell him to never 'die' again. Then Greg would set about the arduous task of bringing Sherlock and John together again. 

Mycroft lets out a frustrated huff as he brings his phone to his ear. "Greta, where is my brother? He's not answering his phone." He nods. "I see. Yes, that is encouraging. When you bring up his tea, tell him to call me immediately." 

"No 'hello' or 'thanks'. Working for you must be a joy," Greg says sourly.

"I assure you that my staff is well compensated for their work." Mycroft sends another message.

"What was he doing?" Greg asks.

"I assume working. He asked for tea and toast. It's not out of the norm for him to ignore me." Mycroft rolls his eyes. 

"Family dinners must be a real laugh." Greg shakes his head. Then he wonders if they've had one since the accident. "How are your parents with this?"

Mycroft turns his gaze to the street. "They are understandably concerned for their son."

"And the being dead thing?"

"They disagreed with how it was handled." He turns to Greg. "They love Sherlock, but they don't understand him."

Greg cocks an eyebrow. "You do?"

"More than anyone." 

"John understood him." Greg grips the steering wheels until his knuckles turn white. "He would have done anything for Sherlock. You know that."

"He would pity Sherlock. There's only so much the good doctor could have done. He has a family of his own," Mycroft sniffs.

"He doesn't have that now, does he? He would have supported Sherlock during his recovery and now Sherlock would have been there for him!" Greg bitterly shakes his head. "I know you thought you were doing what was best, but I hope you can clearly see that you've fucked this up."

Mycroft's lips disappear into a straight line. He's not ready to accept defeat, though the evidence and dissenters are mounting against him.

Greg's anger over the situation returns as he navigates through the driving rain. He had envisioned that he'd bury his grief and frustration over the night into Mycroft's skin. He would suck, taste and just feel pleasure instead of the emptiness he feels for John. Anything to erase the shock Greg saw on John's face.

Instead, he is driving through the freezing rain in his smelly car, grimacing with every squeak the breaks make, hoping that it actually gets them to this house in Cambridge where his ‘dead’ friend is analyzing evidence that he shouldn't have access to. 

Greg has run out of things to say. Mycroft's pride is like a thick wall surrounding him, and tonight words just bouncing off. He needs to hear from Sherlock. What was his part in all this? Did he resist Mycroft's plans, or was he too medicated to know what his brother was doing? Greg could see Sherlock agreeing right after the accident, who knows what anyone’s mindset could be after the pain and sedation. But what about now? Especially since John so desperately needs him. Sherlock would do anything for John, even rising from the dead again.

"You're disappointed." Mycroft breaks the silence.

"I'm not going to get into it right now." Greg wearily shakes his head. Exhaustion has settled into his old bones. His back feels like it could snap if anyone laid a finger on it. 

Mycroft's phone buzzes, and his eyebrows knit together as he reads the message.

"Is that him?" Greg glances over.

"The agent that drove him home," Mycroft mutters, clearly distracted. "Something is not right."

Greg pushes his old car a little harder. It shudders under protest, but cuts through the rainy night. “What did he say?”

“That Sherlock was visibly upset.” Mycroft sighs. “Since the accident, he wears his emotions on his sleeve.”

“He did plan the wedding with her. Did you think that he wouldn’t be affected by her death?” Greg asks. 

Greg still doesn’t know that it was Mary that shot Sherlock, and while that truth can now be set free, it is not the time for that conversation Mycroft decides.

“This is not about Mary. He might feel some kind sadness for her passing, yes. But it’s John that he’s worried about.” He rubs his forehead. “It’s always John.”

Greg looks over to see Mycroft close his eyes tightly. "What are you thinking?" 

Mycroft's hand curls into a tight ball. "That I shouldn't have left him alone." He jumps when the phone buzzes in his hand. Swiping the screen, he brings it to his ear. "Yes? What? Greta, you need to speak slowly. I can't understand you when you rattle." Mycroft's knee bounces anxiously and uncharacteristically. "The door is locked. No, don't call the police."

Greg presses the gas pedal down a little more. Mycroft's voice edges on nervous. 

"You have Agent Carter's information, yes? Call him as soon as we get off the phone." He looks over to Greg. "We'll be there in ten minutes. Go back upstairs and continue to knock on his door."

Mycroft presses his phone to his lips and blinks a few times.

"What's wrong? What's going on?" Greg's voice shakes.

Mycroft is already making another call. "Carter, I need to get to Sherlock. He's locked the door and is not responding to Greta. We will be there before you, but I might require your assistance."

A shaking hand runs through his thin light brown hair. He feels the bile turn in his stomach- just ready to rise up and burn his throat. He turns his head towards Greg. "It's a danger night. A bad one."

"I'm going as fast as I can." Greg took a deep breath. 

He needs to be the stoic one as Mycroft realises the consequences of his decision months ago. Of course it is too much for Sherlock. Greg thinks that Mycroft doesn't understand Sherlock, at least not like he used to. Perhaps now, he is finally seeing how much Sherlock has changed since John Watson walked onto the scene and Sherlock's heart opened like a slowly budding rose. 

"He couldn't have done too much harm." Greg reassures Mycroft. Knowing the eldest Holmes as he does, Greg is certain that nothing lethal is in the same household as Sherlock.

"Unless one of the agents procured something for him. Or worse." Mycroft swallows hard.

"He'd never leave a case unsolved. Not one that involves John." Greg asserts.

"The house on the left." Mycroft points.

Of course there are monstrous iron gates and a semi-circular driveway. The Victorian house is a dark brick and nearly disappears against the sheets of black rain. Compared to the six bedroom house in London, this house almost looks cozy with only two floors. Greg unbuckled his belt before he stops the car while Mycroft has the door open as it pulls up to the front door.

The car clunks when Greg slams it into 'park' to follow Mycroft up the stairs. He's not even certain that he closed the door. The tile in the entryway is the same white marble as the London house leading to a walnut staircase. 

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" Mycroft calls as he hurries up the stairs.

Greta has tears streaming down her face. "Mr. Holmes, I'm sorry." She slumps against the only closed door on the second floor - Sherlock’s room.

Mycroft pounds on the door. "When did you last talk to him?"

"I don't know. When he asked for tea!" She sobs. 

"How long ago, Greta?" Mycroft continues to bang on the door until his fist burns.

"I don't know!" She cries.

"Move aside," Greg demands from the other end of the hall.

"Gregory, this door is solid walnut. You'll never break it down." Mycroft says.

"Do you have a better idea?" Greg growls.

Mycroft presses his back against the wall to give Greg space. Greg takes a deep breath and runs shoulder first into the door. Wincing when he bounces back, the door remains intact. He rolls his shoulders and gives it another go. On the other side, he hears wood splinter with that blow.

"Is there a key?" Greg pants. 

"It didn't work," Greta admits tearfully. “Something is blocking the door.”

"Let's both try. I think I've weakened the jamb." Greg rubs his shoulder.

Mycroft joins Greg at the other end of the hallway. 

"On the count of three." Greg counts down with his fingers.

The first attempt has Mycroft and Greg knocking into each other. The second has Greg topple to the floor, but the door jamb is weakening. The final attempt sends Greg through the door to the sound of splintering wood and a chair scraping across the wooden floor. 

"Oh Christ," he gasps when his eyes focus on the scene before him.

Files, red string and photos of the victims are strewn about the floor and desk. Bits of paper are crumpled into tight balls and scattered about the small room. Greg’s eyes move up to the lifeless lump with unruly dark curls curled up on the disheveled bedsheets. Since he cannot see the face, Greg looks for any sign of life - movement in his spine, a toe twitching - anything. It’s then that the acrid stench of burned chemicals hits Greg’s nose. He recognises that smell, and he knows it in regards to Sherlock.

“Find the syringe!” Greg barks at Mycroft.


	58. Chapter 58

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Find the syringe," Greg orders Mycroft who stands with his mouth gaping open.
> 
> Meanwhile, Greg crawls on the bed to press two fingers to Sherlock’s neck. He flinches when he feels rubbery skin. With the anger over Mycroft's lies and the worry of Sherlock's wellbeing, Greg has completely forgotten about the burns that cover the detective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry that it took me 3 weeks to get this chapter to you. As we go along, the chapters get tougher to write it seems. Good news is that I am breezing through the next one. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and commenting. I hope that i live up to the expectations that you have for what has become a monster of a fic. 
> 
> Again, thank you to all my betas. You keep me right, in the words of Sherlock. You keep me on the right track and push me to go deeper. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone!

"Find the syringe," Greg orders Mycroft who stands with his mouth gaping open.

Meanwhile, Greg crawls on the bed to press two fingers to Sherlock’s neck. He flinches when he feels rubbery skin. With the anger over Mycroft's lies and the worry of Sherlock's wellbeing, Greg has completely forgotten about the burns that cover the detective. 

"He has no syringes," Mycroft says when he finds his voice.

"Sherlock will always have a syringe, Mycroft. Are you that bloody stupid?" He spits.

To his relief, Greg feels a steady pulse under the hard skin. He steels himself as he gently rolls Sherlock to his back. The burns are not open and weeping like in the photos Mycroft had shown him. The skin is still red in some areas, but it is mostly shiny like plastic. Most of Sherlock's face has been spared as the scarring only extends from the right side of his forehead across his cheek down to the side of his neck.

Mycroft kicks through the papers on the floor while Greg brushes back the dark curls from Sherlock's face and bites back the tears of gratitude that threaten to fall.

"Wake up, Sherlock. Come on. Tell us what you took, son." He pats on Sherlock's cheek. He looks up at a Greta who sobs uncontrollably in the doorway. "Get me all your medications!"

"But I never...." Her eyes fill with fear and more tears.

"Just get them! He had to have found something in this house!" Greg yells.

Greta looks to Mycroft who has joined Greg on the edge of the bed.

"Greta, it's incredibly important for you to do as he instructs. Quickly," Mycroft asserts.

She nods and rushes down the stairs to her living quarters. 

"Greg?" Mycroft's voice is tight.

"He'll be okay. His pulse is strong. Whatever he took wasn't enough to kill him." Greg picks up Sherlock's left wrist to feel the steady beat of Sherlock's pulse. 

Heavy footsteps clomp up the stairs drawing Greg's eyes to the door.

"Carter." Mycroft flies to the short blonde man. 

Greg feels the misplaced itch of jealousy. Despite the hour, the man is impeccably dressed in a sleek polo, bespoke trousers and not a blonde hair out of place.

Carter shakes his head. "I shouldn't have left him."

"Can you help?" Mycroft gestures to the black leather case in Carter's hand.

"Do we know what he took?" he asks as he sets the case on the floor.

"The housekeeper is getting her medications. You're a...." Greg tilts his head.

"Former Army medic." Carter moves to the bed to press his fingers to Sherlock's neck.

"Is there anything you can tell us about the ride home tonight?" Mycroft paces in the small room.

"Careful, he'll eventually need those." Greg points to the files being crushed under Mycroft's shoes.

"Help me move him up the bed. I need to use the headboard," Carter says to Greg.

"For?" Greg asks brusquely.

"He's dehydrated, for one. I need to get fluids in him. Once I see what he's taken, I can take the next step." Carter hooks his arms under Sherlock and props him up, causing his head to loll to the side. 

"Careful," Greg hisses as he slips his hands around Sherlock's thighs.

"On the count of three," Carter instructs.

Greg cannot believe that he's in a strange bedroom of a house he didn't know Mycroft owned, moving a man he thought died months ago. Gingerly, they slide Sherlock's slack body to the head of the bed. Immediately, Carter sets his case on the bed to pull out a bag of clear liquid, a needle and tubing.

"You always carry this with you?" Greg cocks an eyebrow.

Carter glances up. "Of course. I work with Sherlock. I need to be prepared for anything."

Greg nods in agreement. Out of all the times he's seen the detective in a drug addled state, this is fairly tame. He's not drooling or frothing. His eyes are responsive when Carter flashes a torch. 

"Here." Greta shoves a handful of prescription bottles at Mycroft who nods to give them to Carter.

"Can you read them off to me?" Carter asks while he swabs Sherlock's wrist with alcohol.

Greg nods and rattles off the names for blood pressure, cholesterol, osteoporosis and antibiotics. 

"Here. One for hydrocodone and one for hydromorphone." Greg reads the labels. "They expired this year."

"I bet he mixed them to create the high he was looking for." Carter turns to Mycroft. "You said his drug of choice was cocaine?"

"Preferably, but when in need he won't be too picky." Mycroft nods and gnaws on his bottom lip.

"There's still some in here, so he didn't mean to kill himself." Greg looks inside the bottle. "Probably didn't want to raise any alarms."

"He didn't expect company tonight. He would get his high and move on." Mycroft grimaces. His little brother would always turn to chemicals to avoid emotions. It is a viscous cycle that never seems to end.

"He claimed it helped him think," Greg offers.

Carter tapes the tubes to Sherlock's left wrist and starts the IV drip. "Alone, these drugs are addictive. Together..."

"They could be deadly." Mycroft runs a hand over his face. "How long will he be out?"

"Most of the night unless you want me to administer something to counteract the sedation aspect." Carter strips off his latex gloves.

"No more drugs." Mycroft shakes his head.

Carefully, Greg shuffles through the papers on the floor. "We need to find the syringes. I'm sure he has a stash hidden somewhere."

"What happened in the car?" Mycroft turns to Carter.

The blonde agent hesitates as he glances at Sherlock and wonders how much the confidence should be broken.

"You know I have ways to get the information I want." Mycroft warns.

"Myc!" Greg admonishes. 

"Fair play." Carter nods with pursed lips. "He was upset when he got in the car, but was quiet for most of the trip. He was on his phone when he asked me to pull over. That's when he got sick."

Mycroft's eyebrows shoot up. "Sick, as in vomit?"

"Yes sir. Opened the car door to do it. I asked what he needed and he said he needed to get home to work." Carter says.

"Considering the night, it's not unusual for him to have that type of reaction," Greg shrugs. "Bit dramatic to wind up here, though."

Mycroft walks to the window to stare into the rain slamming against the panes. This reaction seems extreme for Sherlock, even this new and changeable Sherlock. His brother's concern for Mary only extends as far as John's wellbeing. Would Sherlock been driven into sickness in worrying about John? As far as Mycroft had been concerned, John had been a fading memory, a person to avoid while investigating the murders. Sherlock would never be one to share his thoughts on losing John's friendship, but Mycroft had seen the fog lift around his brother lately. He had been certain that the case provided Sherlock with plenty of stimulation and a perfect distraction from all that had been lost. 

Mycroft closes his eyes and thinks back to the morgue. He sees Sherlock move from the hallway to the car. He is slumped in the backseat knowing the Met is coming with John. He is flicking away on his phone as the car the pulls away.

Mycroft's eyes pop open. "What was he doing on his phone?"

"I was driving. I couldn't see." Carter looks up from Sherlock's side.

Mycroft moves closer. "Was he reading or typing?"

The agent's shoulders roll. "Both, I guess."

"Do you think he read something that upset him?" Greg asks from the floor where he is making piles of the discarded pieces of paper. 

"Let us see." Mycroft snatches Sherlock's phone from the foot of the bed.

The text messages are the first place he checks. Only two people have messages Sherlock - Mycroft and Carter. His eyes flit over to the agent taking Sherlock's pulse. He recalls the offhand remark his brother made weeks ago. Yes, Mycroft knew that Carter was homosexual, but he also was aware that he was in a relationship. Still, he reads the messages between Carter and Sherlock for any innuendo or subtext to something inappropriate. It's mostly about the case and Carter's reluctance to drop the 'sir' when addressing Sherlock.

Frowning, Mycroft opens the Facebook application. As he suspects, it opens onto John Watson's page. The entries are not out of the ordinary, a typical portrait of happy family life with Mary and their baby. Of course, Mycroft knows otherwise and wonders if he should divulge that truth to Sherlock. He has worked hard for his brother to not be concerned with John. But Mary's death has brought their lives crashing back together. 

Sherlock's alias account offers no insight what caused him to plunge a needle full of narcotics into his vein. Mycroft searches through the web browsers - mostly research for the case or places to order more lab equipment. 

"Here." Greg stands. "It was under the bed wrapped in a flannel."

Carefully, Mycroft unwraps the flannel to reveal a disposable plastic syringe.

"Carter, do you know anything about this?" Mycroft all but accuses.

"If you have an accusation, you better come out with it." Carter growls with is fists balled at his side.

Greg presses the palm of his hand to Mycroft's back. "I don't think Sherlock got it from him. Any clues on the phone?"

Mycroft knows that Greg is absolutely right, he had seen the fear in Carter's eyes when he entered the room. Despite all odds, Carter and Sherlock have become friends. 

He shakes his head while swiping through the different applications on Sherlock's mobile. "Nothing out of the ordinary." 

In the last folder titled 'Untitled' are two applications. Hope Network and Hope Connect. 

Sitting at the desk, Mycroft taps Hope Network open. He isn't certain what he was expecting from the name, but he doesn't expect a grief website. His eyebrows knit together reading over categories such as Parental Death, Death of a Child, and Spousal Death. Deep down, he knows this is not for a case - but where would Sherlock have gone in here? Then his eyes catch on Black Hole which appears to be a catch all for bereavement. 

"What did you find?" Greg wanders over.

"Would you believe that my brother would be a part of a grief online network?" Mycroft shrugs in bewilderment.

"Given what he's been through, yes. He's isolated here with no one to talk to but your staff. Of course he had to reach out."

Mycroft lets out an uneasy huff. "He's never done this before."

"Before when?" Greg asks. "The blast? I think we can safely assume he's been irrevocably changed."

Mycroft runs a hand through his thin hair. "I should have monitored him closer. I thought this case was enough to keep him busy. Years ago he would lock himself in a laboratory for days without human contact."

"Is there anything from today?" Greg points to the phone.

"No, there has been no activity for two weeks." Mycroft examines User 129's profile. "He has chatted with User 221 extensively."

Mycroft opens Hope chat to see several chats between Sherlock and User 221. He begins to randomly select chats from a month ago.

"Gregory," he looks up. "He has chatted intimately with this person."

Greg raises an eyebrow. "Like sexting?"

"I do not know what that is." Mycroft shakes his head.

"When someone send another a racy message and the other responds." Greg bends close to Mycroft's ear. "We've done it."

Mycroft bristles as he shoots a glance to Carter. The last thing he needs is any of his agents to have knowledge of his relationship with Lestrade. As far as he's concerned, Carter already possesses enough leverage over him. 

"Looks like they've been chatting multiple times a day for awhile now," Greg muses over Mycroft's shoulder. "What is this user's deal?"

Mycroft skims the chats for pertinent details. "Male, married with a son. Not sure what he's mourning. Calls himself Mike." 

"Isn't Sherlock supposed to be dead? How is he reaching out to people?" Greg asks.

"Agent Carter, what do you know of this?" Mycroft clears his throat.

"Excuse me, sir?" Carter tears his attention from Sherlock.

Mycroft stands. "What do you know of this person Sherlock has been communicating with?"

"Nothing, sir." 

With a scowl, Mycroft reads through the chats between Mike and David.

"My brother wasn't exactly honest. Calls himself 'David' and was a lawyer before his accident. They are planning to meet." Mycroft shakes his head in disbelief. "Oh brother mine, how were you going to pull that off?"

"He was lonely, Myc," Greg offers tenderly.

From Carter's averted eyes, Mycroft knows that the agent has worked out the relationship he has with Greg.

"This is this evenings chat." Mycroft hopes that it leads to clues why Sherlock took the drugs.

"How is he?" Greg wanders over to bed.

"Just sleeping it off now. He'll feel terrible when he wakes up." Carter adds another piece of tape to hold the IV tubing in place on Sherlock's arm.

"How's he been?" A wave of empathy washes over Greg, and he swallows down a sob. The undamaged side of Sherlock's face looks so young as he sleeps.

"This case has preoccupied him." Carter nods.

Mycroft’s eyes sweep over the final chat again. There is no possible way. He closes this eyes and thinks to all the ways this could have been avoided. He knew that Sherlock has searched for John Watson on the computer. He does recall Sherlock’s web history with grief counselors and websites months ago, but Mycroft has been neglectful of his brother’s needs beyond the desire for intellectual stimulation. He sinks back into the chair and looks over to his pale younger brother. Sherlock’s mental acuity has not been diminished by the blast at all. 

“What’s wrong? You’ve gone green,” Greg asks.

“I know what happened to Sherlock.” Mycroft presses Sherlock’s phone to his chest. He can feel the pain Sherlock must have felt when he realised the truth. 

“And?” Greg says impatiently. 

“Sherlock has engaged in a some kind of virtual relationship with a man named Mike over the course of the last few months. In their correspondence yesterday, Mike revealed that his wife had been killed.” Mycroft looks over for any flicker of acknowledgment from Greg whose deep frown of confusion remains. “Gregory, Mike’s wife was killed yesterday. The same as….”

“The same day….as Mary. What are the odds?” Greg muses.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Indeed, what are the odds of two women being murdered on the same day? What are the odds that both of those scenarios would have any connection to Sherlock?”

“What?” Greg blinks as Mycroft attempts to lead him to the conclusion. “This woman and Mary are the same person?”

“Not only that, but Mike and John are the same man. Sherlock disguised himself as someone different in these chats and threads. It’s very likely that this Mike did the same. These chats took place around 10:30 at night when Sherlock would have been in the car traveling home. Something caused Sherlock to become ill. I believe it was the discovery that this Mike person is really John Watson.”

Greg’s mouth hangs open. “Fuck me. No bloody way. That’s just….no bloody fucking way.”

“There is a very slim chance that it is otherwise,” Mycroft responds gravely. 

Greg paces between the desk and the bed, careful to not step on the files still on the floor. “But John is married. He and Mary have Willa.” He stops. “John’s not gay.”

“In the same way that you aren’t?” Mycroft raises an eyebrow. 

The tops of Greg’s ear burn in embarrassment. Mycroft watches the flush spread across his cheeks and down his neck. Carter never turns his head in their direction as he takes Sherlock’s pulse again. 

“You think this is what pushed Sherlock to shoot up?” Greg evades the question. 

Mycroft walks to the edge of the bed again. “This would be too much data for Sherlock on a good day. While I don’t know all the workings of his mind, I know that he is more fragile than he lets on.”

“What now?” Greg asks.

“I can’t sit by idly while this continues. I should have monitored him more closely, so this is partly my fault. Now that I know, I need to address this with him.” Mycroft rubs the back of his neck.

“He can’t stay dead, you know that. They need each other, especially now.” Greg touches his arm. 

“I was rapidly coming to that conclusion, Gregory. I need to think of how to unravel this. As much as he will not like it, Sherlock needs to know that I am aware of the situation. If I offer some hope, maybe he will allow me to help him.” Mycroft checks the time. It’s nearly three in the morning. He glances over to the doorway where Greta simpers. “Greta, are all the beds made?”

“Yes sir,” she sniffles. 

“We’ll stay here tonight. My bedroom is on the other side of the hallway.” He rolls his tense shoulders. “I might have a bath before turning in.”

Greg balances his weight from left to right. “Is there another room for me?”

“No, we only need the one room.” Mycroft looks for any kind of reaction from Carter but receives not even a blink. 

“What if Sherlock wakes up?” Greg rubs his hands together nervously. 

“If you have an issue with my brother knowing….” Mycroft starts.

“I don’t. Or at least I don’t think I do,” Greg sputters. 

“Then stay.” He turns to Carter. “How long will he sleep?”

“For at least another six hours. I’m not sure he got the high he was after. I can stay with him, if you’d like.” 

“Yes, if it is not an imposition, he shouldn’t be alone. I have a feeling he’d would be more comforted by your presence than by mine.” Mycroft nods curtly. 

“I just need to make a phone call, sir. I will be right back.” Carter slips out of the room and down the stairs. 

“Did you think there was something…” Greg motions between Sherlock and an absentee Carter.

“You can never be too suspicious.” Mycroft covers Sherlock with a duvet.

“Yet you just outed us to him.”

“I trust him. Apparently, Sherlock trusts him. I have to start somewhere, don’t I?” Mycroft glances over to Greg with a look of utter defeat on his face.

“Come on, luv. Let’s get you a bath and a decent night sleep.” Greg wraps his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders. “We can fix this tomorrow.”


	59. Chapter 59

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John recognises the black car parked beside his house when he pulls himself from the cab. Now that Mary is not a threat, he wonders if the black cars will disappear as quickly as they appeared. With his hand on the doorknob, John hangs his head. The weight of the world rests on his already tired shoulders. The complex cocktail of emotions slosh in his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yippee! An update that didn't take 2 or 3 weeks! It's short but I think important to get into John's head while the drama unfolds in Cambridge. The next chapter has Sherlock waking up and all that will entail. 
> 
> Again and always, thanks so much to my betas, who thankfully didn't have to do much to this chapter. Or they are growing tired of me. 
> 
> Thank you for the wonderful discussions we seem to have at the end of each chapter. I feel like a small community when we start talking. 
> 
> Thank you to anyone that takes the time to read or even start reading this epic WIP. I am glad you have entered my world and I strive to not disappoint.

John recognises the black car parked beside his house when he pulls himself from the cab. Now that Mary is not a threat, he wonders if the black cars will disappear as quickly as they appeared. With his hand on the doorknob, John hangs his head. The weight of the world rests on his already tired shoulders. The complex cocktail of emotions slosh in his stomach. 

When he saw Mary on that cold slab he had felt two things - guilt and relief. While he never wanted her removed from his life, he was wary of her plans in regards to Willa. He has spent days looking over his shoulder and being suspicious of every by-passer on the street. He had arranged for leave so he wouldn't need to be apart from Willa. As much as he loves Mrs. Hudson, he could not expect her to fend off his soon to be ex-wife, the assassin, if Mary managed to get in the house. He had slept on the floor of Willa's room with his gun nearby.

With Mary on the metal table, the tension that pinched his shoulders released a little. While her death seemed horrific and painful, it had been at the hands of a known murderer on the loose. John finds comfort that Mary was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. A small part of him wonders if an enemy decided to copy the methods of a known serial killer to cover up the elimination of Mary. If he knows Mycroft, that possibility is being investigated.

After the relief came the guilt. For everything Mary was, she was still Willa's mother. Granted, she wasn't as maternal as John had hoped but Mary did love the little girl. Even if Mary used her as an anchor to John. Deep down, John feels responsible for her death. If she had not found Sherlock's letter, she would be sleeping in their bed - safe. But that would not have lasted, as John had been making plans to leave regardless. Sherlock's letter only expedited the process.

John lets himself into the house. He hears the television on in the sitting room and wonders if Mrs. Hudson is asleep. Walking by the room, he sees her curled up on the sofa, snoring lightly. Quietly, he moves to the kitchen to pull a beer from the fridge and sit at the table where his marriage ended a few days earlier.

He was a terrible husband, he decides. From the moment Sherlock came back to life, Mary had lost John. Her actions were that of a desperate woman trying to hold on to someone she loved. Even after Sherlock left for his mission, John's heart followed him. Sure, John played the part of dedicated husband and expectant father. He beamed with pride at the mention of the baby, but secretly he counted the days until Sherlock would be home. Then one day, grief took over and John disappeared from Mary even more.

John takes a long drink of his beer nearly downing half the bottle. Who does he notify of her death? She only has a handful of friends. Mycroft will have to dig up any information on family. Though Mary had told him that she was already dead to them and that John was her only family now.

John will return to the hospital in the morning to make arrangements for her funeral. Would she want to be buried as Mary Watson, considering their bitter fight? He could use Morstan even if it really belongs to an infant that died decades ago.

His hands curl into tight fists. Nothing about his life is real at the moment. Even David is virtual. David. John is engulfed in guilt once more. He had been unfaithful to Mary in the past months. While he has not laid a hand on another person, his chats and plans with David are infidelitious. The very last time he had sex with Mary, he needed to think of David's hard form under his body. He had wondered if David's chest was hairy, how his cock would feel in his hand or his mouth.

Yes, John was a shit husband. Mary might have been a terrible person in a prior life and mediocre in this one, but John had been an awful partner and companion. Looking down on the table, he brushes aside the shredded bits of paper. While deep in thought, he had completely peeled the blue label off the beer bottle. 

"When did you get in?" Mrs. Hudson asks sleepily from the doorway.

"Just five minutes ago." He is not in the mood to talk.

"Was it Mary?" She sits across from him.

He nods slowly. "Yes, it was her - what's left at least."

Mrs. Hudson gasps. "Was she....?"

"No, nothing like that. She was drained of her blood, like the others." John rubs his eyes.

"How many have there been?" 

"I'm not sure. I think Greg said five or six." He looks up. "Thank you so much for staying with Willa."

"Pssh. I've no children of my own. She's the granddaughter I've always wanted. She such a doll." Mrs. Hudson swallows a sob. "I can't believe her mother is gone."

John reaches across the table to cover her hand with his. "I know. I hate that too."

"At least you won't be worried about Mary taking her." She sniffles.

"Yes, I won't." He sighs heavily. "Mary always preferred to travel light. I'm not certain she wanted Willa, but who knows?"

John can see Mrs. Hudson eyeing him suspiciously. "If you have something to say..."

She wipes her eyes. "I'm sorry, dear. I'm not myself. There's been too much death lately."

He squeezes her hand. "Yes there has. Would you like to stay here? You can take my bed. There's fresh linens and I haven't slept there since Mary left."

"Where have you been sleeping?" She asks.

"Willa's room. I have an air mattress in the closet. I wanted to be close in case, you know," John shifts his weight uncomfortably. "I wasn't sure what Mary was going to do."

Mrs. Hudson rushes to wrap her arms around John. "You poor dear."

He fights against the rising tide of tears. So far, he's held it together and not wept. In Mrs. Hudson's comforting arms, he finally lets go. His shoulders shake and his breath shudders as fat tears roll down his cheeks. Mrs. Hudson cradles his head and rocks him gently. Only the hiss from the baby monitor accompany his sobs.

It's as if everything catches up to him in one moment - the last two years of turmoil, danger, highs and lows. He has seen too much death, enough to last a lifetime. He misses Sherlock desperately. While the detective would never have comforted him and most likely have said something incredibly inappropriate - he would have been able to make John smile with his ridiculousness. He would have distracted John with the case, the murderer. 

Guilt overtakes the sadness and relief as he feels terrible for wanting Sherlock alive more than the mother of his daughter. He should be more horrified by the way Mary died, but she died as she lived most of her life. It occurs to John that he will never fully know what brought her into his life. Through everything, John never could shake the suspicion that she had been associated with Moriarty and placed in his life for a nefarious purpose.

Eventually, John's shoulders stop shuddering against the sobs and he dries his cheeks. He shows Mrs. Hudson to his abandoned bedroom. As he moves through his house, he is careful to avoid the family photos on shelves, tables and walls. 

"Is there anything you need?" John pauses in the doorway.

"Get some rest." She kisses his cheek. "I'll make my famous fry up tomorrow morning."

With a sad smile, Mrs. Hudson closes the bedroom door.

Every bone and muscle aches as John walks down the hall to Willa's room. Quietly, he opens the door and walks to the cot. Willa sleeps on her side with her mouth open. John can hear her little breaths. The mass of blonde curls is wild from tossing. One arms curls around a stuffed penguin possessively. John swallows the large lump in his throat and resists the urge to scoop her up in his arms and squeeze her. 

In the days that followed Mary's departure, Willa had asked about mama. Just a bewildered look and the tiny voice asking, "Mama?" Broke John's heart. As glad as had been to not have had Mary demanding to see Willa, he was devastated for his daughter. He had been furious with His wife's lack of interest in their little girl.

John did not know what else to do but stop mentioning her. He kept Willa busy with games, toys and so many rides on his shoulders that it hurt to lift his arms over his head.

Now she is truly his and he must make provisions for her care in the long term. Wearily, he runs a hand down his face. Too many people leaving him lately, it's as if his foundation is on loose gravel. His feet find their footing only for a few pebbles to shift and tossing him out of balance. He mourns the fact that two very important people will never see Willa grow up to recite the alphabet, ride a bike, or go to school. How would have Willa and Sherlock regarded one another? Would the little girl with unruly blonde curls melt the heart of the man with unruly dark curls?

Carefully, John takes the air mattress out of the closet. He stills when he hears Willa shift, and continues when he's certain she's still asleep. Quietly, he lays a sheet on top and pulls a duvet over him. He wonders if he'll ever be able to sleep in his own bed. There are too many memories in that room - some good and a fair number of bad. 

John blinks into the darkness and listens to his daughter breathe. Perhaps it is time for a new start - outside of London. He can see Willa playing on the beach in a quiet seaside town. 

He thinks of David. Will he be scared off by the controversy surrounding John now? It was bad enough when he had a crazy soon to be ex-wife lurking in the background. While the potential baggage of Mary always being in his life is gone, John now has to raise Willa on his own. Will David understand that she has to be his first priority? John doesn’t even know if David likes children, let alone wanting to be with one all the time. 

Tonight, he was supposed to meet a man that might have be the key to his future. There is no way he can meet David as soon as he wants to - how would that look? John has to appropriately mourn his wife before he can move on. Will David understand and wait for him? 

John rolls to his side to watch Willa sleep. Tomorrow, he has a million phone calls to make. Once again, he will have to swallow his pride and ask for Mycroft’s help to help settle affairs with Mary Morsten Watson.


	60. Chapter 60

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock hears muffled voices floating in from the hallway. He tries to listen to inflection and tone for identification but the buzzing in his ears and his pounding head makes it impossible to concentrate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters are flowing out of me. The next few might be a little shorter as I take small snapshots of the funeral service and how John is getting on. Meanwhile, Sherlock is learning to work with Greg again. Then we have poor David and Mike who are frozen while John puts his life back together in hopes of moving forward again. 
> 
> Thank you to my betas who have better eyes than me. They question and suggest and make me thing or fight. Thank you to those who sneak a peek and tell me I'm heading in the right direction. And as always thanks to those who take time to read and comment on my silly little (okay not short) story.

Sherlock hears muffled voices floating in from the hallway. He tries to listen to inflection and tone for identification but the buzzing in his ears and his pounding head makes it impossible to concentrate. The light is bright behind his eyelids. Why hadn't he draw the curtains before....wait, he had. His eyeballs burn as his eyelids flutter open. The room is lit with white sunlight so bright it makes him nauseous. His hand flies to forehead to shield against the sun when he becomes acutely aware that he is not alone. It takes all his energy to turn his head. 

Carter looks up from his book and perch at the desk chair on the other side of the room.  
Bollocks, who called him, Sherlock wonders.

"Good morning." Carter places his book on the desk and moves to the bedside.

"Greta?" Sherlock's voice sounds like metal dragging across gravel. 

"Yes, but..." Carter turns his head towards the door.

Sherlock's eyes slide closed again. "Of course, Mycroft."

"Sherlock, what made you do it?" Carter lowers his voice.

Sherlock drapes his arm dramatically over his face. "You wouldn't believe me."

Last night had been a colossal mistake on every level. He only wanted to clear his mind so he could focus on the evidence. Unfortunately he needed cocaine for that. Greta's pain medication only made him fuzzy, then agitated with his inability to focus. His body had grown heavy and then the dreams came. He had hoped that he could forget about John for a few hours, just long enough to have a breakthrough in the case. Instead, he dreamed was fucking John on the marital bed that was one shared with Mary. John was calling out David as Sherlock relentlessly plowed into him. Then he heard crying, only to realise it was John sobbing on all fours. Sherlock leaned over the side of the bed to vomit and had wiped his mouth with the back of his hand just to bury it in John's hair and keep pounding into John despite his sobs.

Sherlock had hoped that in the haze of drugs he would have forgotten that dream. With a slight movement of his hips, he feels the stickiness of a nocturnal emission. 

"Carter, did I vomit?" He asks.

"Yes, around six this morning. Don't worry, I cleaned it," Carter says softly.

He lifts his arm to look at the bedraggled agent. "I'm very sorry," his whispers. "You've been here all night, haven't you?"

Carter nods. "It's fine, Sherlock. I knew you were distressed when I left you last night and I should have stayed."

"It's not your job." He sighs.

"You are my responsibility and my friend," Carter says simply.

John would have done the same exact thing. In fact, he did the very same thing for days after Sherlock had been shot, and again after he returned to the hospital with a raging infection.

Embarrassment bubbles up along with shame. No one was meant to know about last night. Sherlock had been careful to take only a few pills. He had told Greta he would be busy and was not to be disturbed. Had Mycroft dropped by with the evidence, thus finding him?

"So what happened in the car?" Carter repeats.

"You know that I knew the woman who died. I was the best man at her wedding." Sherlock's heart begins race. 

"Yes, and she was married to your friend John." Carter pulls the chair to the bedside.

The mention of John's name has Sherlock break out into a chilly sweat. He longs to kick off the covers but can't - the mess in pyjama bottoms will be noticed. He pushes the covers to his hips.

"I could use water. I feel like I've been dragged with mouth open through a desert," he whines.

Carter hands Sherlock a glass of water from the bedside table. "Here. Drink slowly..."

Sherlock sputters on a large gulp.

"Or you'll choke," Carter finishes with a wry smile.

Sherlock swallows the water roughly and it burns all the way down his throat. Drug just aren't as fun as they once were. He settles back against the pillow and notices the tubes taped to his arm.

"Was this necessary?" He sighs dramatically.

"You'd be feeling a lot worse if I hadn't, trust me." Carter checks the bag. "I'll take it out in a bit."

"Where is my brother?" Sherlock closes his eyes and imagines the scene Mycroft witnessed. Had Carter found him first? How long did Mycroft stay before tossing up his hands in frustration to return to his library in town?

"Good morning, Sherlock," Mycroft says.  
Sherlock opens his eyes to find his older brother leaning against the splintered door jamb. 

"Look, I know this was a mistake. It failed to meet its objective and therefore I won't be stealing Greta's medication again."

"That's all well and good. However we still need to discuss the incident last night." Mycroft slips his hands into his pockets.

Sherlock frowns as he notices casual trousers and the shirtsleeves neatly rolled up to Mycroft's elbows.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asks suspiciously. "Couldn't this lecture wait?"

"I'm not here to lecture but we still need to talk about yesterday." Mycroft's soft tone unsettles Sherlock.

"I'm hungry." Sherlock says suddenly. Hopefully he can deflect Mycroft long enough from probing to why his brother decided to stick a needle in his arm last night.

"I'll have Greta make something. Toast?" 

"And eggs. I never ate yesterday." Sherlock pulls the sheets up to his chest. "Now, I've pounding headache and need to close my eyes for a bit. Carter, can you draw the curtains?"

He can hear Mycroft sigh heavily and he’s certain that an eye-roll accompanied it. Hopefully, Carter or someone will bring him some paracetamol for his thundering head. It would be far worse if Carter had not given him an IV. The footfalls on the stairs are definitely male, another agent? He is certain that Mycroft has an army of his people turning this old house upside down looking for any kind of drug or paraphernalia. Sherlock is lying on his last two plastic syringes, tucked deep between the mattresses. He wonders if Mycroft will look there when Sherlock is forced into the shower.

“Is he awake?” a familiar voice asks.

Sherlock’s eye fly open and stare directly into Greg Lestrade’s. He sits up so fast that his stomach rolls with the sudden motion. His arms jerks so suddenly that it pulls the needle, causing searing pain to travel up his arm. 

“What...what….” Shooting pain slices through Sherlock’s every thought as he shakes his head. “Why is he here?”

Greg looks to Mycroft. “You didn’t tell him?”

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose. “We hadn’t gotten that far.”

“Why did you bring him here?” Sherlock rages.

“We can’t do this anymore.” Mycroft says wearily. 

“What do you mean ‘this’?” the younger Holmes hisses.

“I asked to see you. Mycroft told me last night that you were alive and I didn’t believe him so I demanded that he bring me here.” Greg steps forward. 

Sherlock tries to process this with all the other noises inside his head. “Why did you tell him? Didn’t you tell me ‘this’ was best? Wasn’t the word better off without me? After all, what good am I now? I can’t even solve a simple serial murder.” 

Subconsciously, Sherlock pulls the sheet over the right side of his body and turns his face away. He can feel Greg’s eyes taking in the damaged skin. He cannot bear to see the disgust or pity in the other man’s eyes. How could his own brother betray him, after all he was the one that convinced Sherlock that it was better if pretend that he had died in that blast? 

“I might have been misguided by that choice we made months ago.” Mycroft moves closer. 

Greg clears his throat while Sherlock cocks his head.

Mycroft closes this eyes. “The decision that I made.”

Greg clears his throat louder.

“Fine,” he says over his shoulder. “Sherlock, I was wrong to keep you from people who care about you. But I was only acting in your best interest.”

"You kept me in an ivory tower for months. You made me believe that I was a monster no one would understand…. you convinced me that it was better that I was dead. And now all you can say 'whoops'?" Sherlock's throat burns from shouting.

"Sherlock, I suspect he was scared. He said that he wasn't sure if you'd recover." Greg inches closer.

"Why are you defending him?" Sherlock eyes widen in disbelief.

"Sherlock, you have recovered far above expectations. When you were discovered, the doctors were not certain you would live and in what capacity. There had been blunt force trauma to your head, and there was no way to know if there had been permanent damage." Mycroft sits at the edge of bed and allows a moment of true tenderness to shine through his facade. "As always, you surprise me. If I had known then that you would recover as you have, I would have made a different decision." He hangs his head. "I acted rashly and with emotion. I apologise."

Sherlock wonders if he might still have some of the drugs in his system and if they've taken in a hallucinatory effect. The fact remains that despite Mycroft's error, he is still very much dead and and of no help to anyone that needs him. His stomach rolls when he thinks of the mess he still needs to untangle with John and Mike. His hands feel around on the bed. What if Mike has messaged?

"Where's my phone?" Sherlock searches the bedsheets frantically.

Mycroft pulls it out of his pocket. "It's here."

Sherlock gestures wildly. "Give it here and then leave. All of you."

Mycroft and Greg exchange a glance. "We still need to talk," Mycroft says.

"Later," Sherlock growls.

"He hasn't messaged," Mycroft announces coolly. 

Greg shakes his head. "Mycroft!"

Sherlock freezes. "What?"

"Your friend Mike. There have been no messages from him." Mycroft says evenly.

Cocking his head with a murderous glare, Sherlock asks, "What do you know about him?"

"I know you've been communicating closely with him for the last few months." Mycroft takes in a deep breath. “Intimately….”

Sherlock pulls the IV out of his arm and attempts to stand. The room swims while pain slices through his head like a dull meat cleaver. Mycroft has absolutely no right to invade Sherlock’s privacy. 

“I do not interfere with your life and whatever it is you do when you aren’t running everyone else’s. What right do you have to…” Sherlock places his hand on the mattress to steady himself. 

“When you fill your body with enough drugs, that were not prescribed to you by the way, so that you are unresponsive - then it becomes very much my business, brother mine,” Mycroft hisses in response. Sherlock has no comprehension of how much he has put on the line and possibly sacrificed to keep his little brother protected. 

“Boys!” Greg intervenes. “Please, let’s take a breath and calm down.” He looks to Mycroft. “He’s coming off a fairly bad high. He’s easily agitated, remember?” 

Greg remembers the various states Sherlock has been found in the earlier years of their acquaintance. While the detective has been on death’s door a few times, his emotional state then was far steadier than it is now. 

Sherlock leans forward and snatches his phone from Mycroft’s grip. “How did you get in?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “You off all people should have a better passcode. Didn’t you give Miss Adler the same advice about the heart ruling the mind? Luckily, Gregory knows John Watson’s birthdate.”

Sherlock scowls at his foolishness. Months ago when Mycroft had given him the phone, his mind had been fuzzy, he would easily forget things that came naturally to him before the blast. He had chosen a passcode that he would remember and that no one else would deem important.

Sherlock vibrates with anger. "My privacy, the little bubble of a life I have left was not sacred enough for you. You completely own me like a damaged piece of furniture you can't bear to part with."

"Let's calm down." Greg places his hand on an advancing Mycroft. "Just stop." He turns his attention to Sherlock and eases him to sit on the bed while pointing out the wound Sherlock created by tearing the IV needle out of his arm.

"You were right, Mycroft. This is what you were trying to guard me against. Being treated with pity - treated like a child," Sherlock glowers.

"You've been acting like a child forever, Sherlock - injured or not." Greg grabs the sterile pad from Carter to clean the blood from the wound.

"Perhaps this enough for one day," Mycroft suggests.

"Myc!" Greg admonishes.

Sherlock looks from Mycroft to Greg. Why is the inspector here, in jeans and a casual shirt with hair still damp from a shower? Why hadn’t Carter given him something slightly stronger than paracetamol? His head throbs with its own pulse. It is difficult to think while every new thought feels like a knife slice.

"Apparently I'm not the only one keeping a secret life," Sherlock offers evenly.

"Carter, would you excuse us?" Mycroft walks to the damaged door. In its current state, it won't offer much privacy, but it will at least give the impression of privacy.

"Of course, sir." He nods to Sherlock. "I'll be back to bandage that." 

Mycroft closes the door behind the agent and turns back to an inscrutable gaze from Sherlock, who lips twist into a humorless grin.

"Did you comfort the inspector in his grief?" His head turns to Greg. "Did you know all along?"

Greg starts. "I found out last night. Your brother confessed when I came home..."

Sherlock's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "Home? Good god, are you married?"

"No," Greg blurts as if it is the most ridiculous notion ever uttered. He cannot believe that he has to define is undefinable relationship to his partner's younger brother. "I don't know what....we are."

Sherlock whips his head around. "And you...sentiment is a defect, you always preached. You felt I was too friendly with that inspector. Were you seething in jealousy because you longed to have him for yourself?"

 

Mycroft closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"The months after the blast were difficult and I mourned you. I had no way of knowing how you would recover, of if you would survive the burns. Yes, I shut you away from a very cruel world that remembers the great Sherlock Holmes. I, too, went into seclusion. I built a small section of people around me that I would trust." Mycroft's fist curl into balls. While he might not have suffered like Sherlock, he had to make sacrifices to keep his brother safe and hidden.

"Am I meant to feel sympathy?" Sherlock scoffs.

"I'm trying to explain how this," he motions between himself and Greg, "happened. I was lonely and in mourning myself. Gregory and I worked on this case and..."

"Things grew from there," Greg smiles fondly at Mycroft.

Sherlock’s brows furrow together as he watches them. Their body language is relaxed and almost intimate. Greg’s body is turned towards Mycroft in an invitation for physical contact. 

"I've seen the way you look at Molly Hooper," Sherlock says and shakes his head. "I never picked up any queues..."

"The same as John Watson. You were so certain he was heterosexual, but now you know otherwise," Mycroft says.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Oh for God's sake! Is nothing sacred." He hangs his head. "How much did you read?"

"Enough to deduce the same thing you did while in the car last night. It wasn't Mary's death that sent you to drugs. It was the realisation that you've been wooing John Watson all these months, unknowingly," Mycroft's voice is soft and tender.

Sherlock wants to roll over and take another syringe filled with something stronger than medication for a bad hip. The last twenty four hours have been beyond surreal. He can barely catch a breath before something else is revealed to knock him off his unsteady axis. Sherlock feels weight beside him on the bed. Greg curls one leg under him.

"It's off putting, isn't it? You can't help but stare and wonder." Sherlock gnaws on his lower lips. His fingers rub at the well worn pyjama pants. 

"I'm not going to lie, it's a shock at first but not for the reason you think. I hate that you were in pain and clinging to life," Greg lays a hand over Sherlock's burnt hand. “And alone.”

Sherlock flinches, and attempts to pull his hand away. He just wants to bury it under his bedsheets, but Greg tightens his grip. They sit like this for a moment in silence with Sherlock’s eyes fixed on the duvet. Greg’s hand is warm and comforting, and Sherlock has to fight the urge to fall forward into an embrace. Instead, he lifts his eyes to meet his friend’s gaze. 

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches into a smirk. "Clinging to life is what I do best."

Playfully, Greg nudges him. "I wish I'd been there, you great git. I'm sure John will feel the same."

"I'm dead, remember?" Sherlock says sourly.

"That's what we need to discuss," Mycroft says.

Sherlock laughs bitterly. "Am I coming back again? Even Jesus only did that trick once."

"Since when are you religious?" Mycroft frowns.

"I'm not. I just like a good fairy tale." Sherlock pushes himself back against the headboard. 

"John needs you," Greg says. "I thought he needed a friend because Mary died. But it’s more than just that."

"This cannot be fixed." Sherlock reaches for his dressing gown to cover himself. "There's no coming back this time."

"We're going to do it differently this time. No waltzing into a restaurant to announce you're not dead." Mycroft walks to the window. "This was my doing, I will fix this."

"How do you propose to do that? John thinks I'm dead! He's just lost his wife, even if he was planning to leave her," Sherlock protests.

"He was?" Greg asks.

"If John is indeed Mike, them yes!” Sherlock fists his hair in frustration. What are they not understanding about the situation? “Did you read the part where we were meant to meet last night? ‘David’ and ‘Mike’ were supposed to have a date." Sherlock flies off the bed. In his anger, he no longer cares that his scars are very visible and hurt from moving too quickly. “We were both moving on and now that cannot happen.” His shoulders drop in defeat. “But we can’t move backwards either.”

He walks to his brother and places his hands on his shoulders. "I will fix this."

"You've done a bang up job so far, Myc," Sherlock mimics Greg's pet name.

Once again, Greg moves between them. "We don't have to do anything today, right? What did John, I mean Mike, say last?"

"He'd contact me today after he got some sleep," Sherlock runs a hand over his face. 

"Can you put off meeting him for a bit?" Greg asks. 

"Possibly. I'm sure he has more important matters to attend to." Suddenly, Sherlock feels tired and slumps to the bed wearily.

"We're going to come up with something, okay?" Greg reassures him. "But you need to eat something. You can't survive on an IV alone."

"What were you going to do if you had actually met?" Mycroft asks.

"I wouldn't have been able to convince him that I didn't know." Sherlock shrugs weakly. "John would still be lost to me forever, and I would still be here.” He points to the mess on his desk. “Trying to find out who killed his wife.” 

Greg thumbs through the papers on the desk. "You have everything, don't you?"

"As much as I could get my hands on. Now I know how Mycroft brokered that."

"Don't be crude," Mycroft says curtly. "I'll see about your breakfast that you will eat every last crumb of."

Greg lingers in the room, looking at the wall of evidence. "I'm shocked he made it out of the room without a bloody nose."

"Well," Sherlock sighs, "he's caught me on an off morning."

"Are you alright with this, your brother and me?" He asks.

"Are you?" Sherlock raises his eyebrows.

Greg shrugs. Until now, he had tried to not give it much thought. They would see each other, have dinner and spend the night together. In the morning, Greg would leave and go to work. Neither of them talked about it. 

"I think so. I don't think either of us will be marching in a Pride parade. And we still have high level careers, so I imagine this will remain private. I think it's good that it meant enough to let you know, you know?" Again, Greg shrugs.

"I've never seen him this concerned or besotted," Sherlock says. He reached his dressing gown again. 

"That's him besotted?" Greg chuckles.

For the first time in over twenty four hours, Sherlock cracks a genuine smile. "Sadly, yes."

An awkward silence envelops them. Sherlock fiddles with the sleeve of his gown, but he can feel Greg's eyes pour over him.

"It's incredibly good to see you, Sherlock," Greg attempts to stifle a sob. He wraps his arms around the battered genius.

Sherlock realises that with the exception of his mother, no one has embraced him since Mary hugged him on the tarmac so many months ago. He’s not certain what to do, so he stands stiff and allows Greg to hold him.

“I missed you,” Greg sniffles into Sherlock’s shoulder.

It hits Sherlock then how much of his life he has missed. He had mourned the loss of John while lying in hospital beds and rehab clinics. He had known he would miss Mrs. Hudson’s nagging, but he had conveniently forgotten the other people that made up his life. Slowly, his arms move up to return Greg’s embrace. 

“I’m not convinced that it is good to be seen,” Sherlock sighs and moves away. “My mind doesn’t feel as sharp as it once was.”

“It’s because you’re caged up. And that’s going to stop, let me tell you,” Greg asserts. 

“I am not sure I am ready for my face to be splashed over every paper. ‘The once dashing detective!’, I can see it now. Part of my success was hiding in plain sight and being a chameleon. I stand out now.” Shaking his head, Sherlock paces the room.

“You’ve always stood out. People always noticed you. Sure, disguises were easier before. And you’ll stand out for a different reason, but if I know you, you’ll find a way to work that to your advantage,” Greg says. 

“What does it feel like, my skin? I know what it feels like to me.” Sherlock stops to look at Greg.

“It’s smooth and hard underneath. That’s it. It’s not as pliable, but it’s not that different. How does it feel to you?” Greg asks.

“Most of the sensation is dulled. I’ve been told some of that might come back. It feels like being touched through clothing though nothing is covering you, except a hard shell of damaged skin,” Sherlock explains bitterly. 

“Mycroft told me that your mission was a suicide mission. The probability of you returning was less than twenty percent.” Greg bites his lower lip.

Sherlock shrugs. “I killed a man. It didn’t matter if he was a bad man, because there was no tangible proof that he was bad. No one dared to cross him because he had done awful things for the government. I’m not sure why it never occurred to anyone to just kill him themselves.”

Greg gives Sherlock a weak smile. "We'll fix this. It might take time, but it's better than not having hope."

"I had hope until last night. I couldn't have John, I knew that. But there was Mike and if he accepted this," Sherlock gestures to his face, "then I had hope. What I have now is a colossal cock up, chaos. I have what is essentially two men that won't forgive me."

Greg reaches for Sherlock who jerks away. He flops onto his bed. "I need a moment. I need to think."

And with that, the wall closes around Sherlock. It's as if the blinds have dropped on his emotions. Greg knows not to push him. With a nod, he walks to the door.

"I look forward to working with you again. Met's gone to shit since you've left. This maniac has everyone running around with their heads cut off." Greg looks to the evidence wall again.

 

"I'm missing something big. Perhaps because I can't fully do my job." Sherlock scrubs at his tired eyes.

"Do you want to go over everything together after you've eaten?" Greg asks optimistically.

There is a long pause before he answers, "Sure. Fine. What damage could you do?"

Greg laughs lightly. "There's the Sherlock I love."

Sherlock watches Greg slip out of the room. At last, he can catch his breath and try to organise his thoughts. He lies back on the bed and closes his eyes.

First order of business is to toss what he knows of Mycroft and Greg into a room at the end of his mind palace. That is something that he can deal with later. Reluctantly, he turns to the room labeled Mike, which John’s name has been scrawled over in red paint. 

John had realised that he was in love with Sherlock after he had left for Russia. He had regrets about not having the opportunity to say something or even make a step forward to something else. Sherlock knows that Mycroft had delivered the letter to John as he foolishly requested. Oh to have a CCTV footage for the moment John read his declaration of love. Was he hurt or angry? Has he kept it or did he burn it anger? Sherlock has alternated from wishing he never wrote it to being relieved to put his heart on that sheet of paper. He only wishes that he could know John’s thoughts on the matter.

But now there is David, so it is clear that John has been ready to move on. He knows that David had been disfigured in a fire yet was still interested in him. Is it possible that John would accept Sherlock as he is? Once he forgives him for playing dead again. Is that even possible? 

How to handle David? Should David get cold feet and decide not to meet? Should he slowly lose interest? How does he slowly kill off David while bringing Sherlock back to life?

But John is not a stupid man. David has described his injuries to prepare Mike for when they met. Therefore John knows which side David had been burned. He has seen some patches of damaged skin in the intimate photos Sherlock has sent. How quickly will he draw the line from David to Sherlock? And there would be no coming back from that betrayal.

No, Sherlock needs to remain dead until Mycroft can provide a compelling argument otherwise. David can still have Mike through words - and then Sherlock still has John. Even if it can only be in a virtual world.


	61. Chapter 61

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Molly Hooper hears about Mary's death the following morning, she turns up at John's door with a casserole in one arm and a bag of baby books in the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is my birthday and it's been trying at best. So I thought I'd post a chapter to feel like I have accomplished something today. 
> 
> Thank you for all your wonderful comments. They really make my day and I enjoy engaging in conversation. Thank you for reading. I know AO3 is overflowing with so many stories that I really appreciate anyone who takes a moment to read mine. Thank to all those who have taken the journey from the start and for those who have hopped on board along the way. 
> 
> Again, a big thanks to those who take time to sift through my brain dumps (and they really are) and give it some shape. I love their comments and questions and challenges. I cherish the friends that have been born out of this fairly dark bit of fiction.
> 
> Thank you!

When Molly Hooper hears about Mary's death the following morning, she turns up at John's door with a casserole in one arm and a bag of baby books in the other. She marches him to the sitting room while she warms up the dinner and reads to an overjoyed Willa. John had not seen her much since Sherlock's death. Like John, she had been perplexed by Mycroft's decision to not have a service and seemingly keep the entire affair quiet. Now several months later, she has a new boyfriend with prominent cheekbones and dark wavy hair. 

Molly apologises for not being in contact sooner.

"I'm a terrible friend," she says.

John brushes it off. "We deal with grief in different ways."

She promises to be around to help John in any way she can. "We're a dwindling family," she sniffs.

John accepts her offer to babysit Willa while he makes phone calls and funeral arrangements. He slips upstairs to sit on his bed to look around their bedroom. He has no more tears to shed, so he pulls out his laptop to begin the surreal task of burying his wife.

He opens the Hope Chat first.

Mike: I won't have much time to chat today. I will be making plans to bury my wife. The phone keeps ringing as word gets out. Is it wrong that I wish you were here?

John doesn't expect an immediate response but he's disappointed when he doesn't receive one. As predicted, Mycroft calls from a secure line to offer John help in any way possible. Somehow this comforts John to know that even after Sherlock's death, Mycroft is keeping an eye on John and Willa. He does decline Mycroft's offer to hire a nanny for Willa.

"Sherlock left enough money to you and Willa that you will not need to work," Mycroft says.

"The clinic still needs me and I'll need it too. I'll cut down my hours, but I need to do something," John tells him. Though it will be nice to not worry about bills on top of everything else.

John plans a simple service and cremation. Unfortunately, Mary had not told John about her final wishes, but given her past, she probably has had some thoughts on the matter. It prompts John to think of Willa, and what should happen to her if he dies prematurely. 

His mobile buzzes on the beside him on the bed. He sees Harry’s name and knows that she’s seen the news. 

“Hello Harry,” he says.

“Oh, John...I’m so sorry. How awful for you and Willa. Such a terrible, terrible thing,” Harry gushes.

Harry is definitely putting on an act for John, as she never liked or trusted Mary. 

“Yes, it was a shock,” John sighs. “Mary had moved out a few days before she was killed.”

“What?”

“Things hadn’t been going well with us since, you know….and finally she had enough. She was angry that I couldn’t see past her shooting Sherlock. She was tired of being in his shadow, and she left. I have no idea where she was going, or where she was staying. They are investigating that now - to see where she was taken.” John’s voice cracks. “Though our marriage was over, she didn’t deserve this.”

“Pardon me for saying, but she got exactly what she deserved. She was an assassin for fuck’s sake. What she didn’t deserve was you and that precious little girl,” Harry says angrily. “I’m sorry, but it had to be said. I know you don’t need this now, but I really don’t want you to waste any energy feeling sorry for her arse!”

John should be angry for Harry’s harsh words at the expense of a dead woman, but he is glad to hear them. Those thoughts have crossed his mind a few times and he feels vindicated by Harry sharing them. 

“You are right,” John responds. 

“And anyone is going to live in Sherlock’s shadow until you man up and admit that you are in love with him,” Harry states. 

John feels his chest cave in again. Apparently everyone else could see how John and Sherlock were in love with one another - just a bit too late to do either of them any good. 

“When is he back? Wasn’t he suppose to be gone for only six months?” she asks.

John swallows roughly. Mycroft has asked that John tell only close friends while working out the details with the government. He has no idea if Sherlock has been declared dead officially. Perhaps he never will. 

“It was an undercover mission, so I have no details.” John squeezes his eyes shut to fight against tears that want to fall. He’s trying very hard to not miss Sherlock so much right now, but he’s losing the battle. 

“I have a right mind to have a few words with this brother of his. Mylock? Mytop?” Harry grumbles.

John smiles weakly. “Mycroft and you won’t get near him. What I need is for you to be here for the service - not for her but to watch your niece. I’d love for you and Clara to come down.”

“Of course, John. We called to find out how soon you need us. Clara put in for leave from the firm. I can do my sales from anywhere. We just need to find a hotel…” Harry says.

“Nonsense. You stay here. You can have my room. By the time you arrive, I will have removed any reminders of Mary.” John eyes the clothes Mary left hanging in the closet. 

“What will you tell Willa?” Harry asks.

John rubs his eyes. “I don’t know. At some point, I’ll have to tell her the truth when she is older. She’ll be able to find out with a quick search of the internet. Maybe it’s time to consider a move out of London.”

“John, you are always welcome up here. It’s fairly rural, but Willa would love the beach and the huge yard we have. We could get her a dog - it could be so lovely,” Harry gushes. 

“Maybe,” John thinks of David. “I’m not making any decisions about anything this week.”

“Of course, of course. Clara and I will start packing now. We’ll leave first thing in the morning,” Harry says.

“Thanks Harry. I really appreciate it,” John says softly. 

“Anything for you, brother. See you tomorrow.” 

John tosses his phone on the bed and buries his head in his hands. So much to do and not enough time or interest to do it. What he wants is to take Willa and run far from his house and anything that reminds him of Sherlock or Mary. It means leaving Greg and Molly - Mike and his friends at the clinic, but he doesn’t care. He wants a new life away from death and pain. This won’t happen but he can long for it. One day, he will be happy again - he hopes. One day, this entire crap year will be a fading memory that he can look back on and think ‘it’s amazing that I survived it’. But first, it is one step at a time. Now that he’s finalised the service and Mary's remains, it is time to box up her things for charity. 

Out of the corner of his eye, John sees his phone light up with a new message. 

David: I wish I could be there for you too. I saw the news report her death. Was her name Mary?

John’s heart swells knowing that David is still out there for him.

Mike: Yes, it was. 

David: I am so sorry. I know things were not good between you but I am sorry it ended like this

Mike: Thank you. I feel bad for our daughter. She won’t have a mother.

David: Yes, that is tragic

John realises his mistake. All along he has been saying that he has a son, and lack of sleep has caused him to be careless. David is a smart man and has most likely caught it. 

Mike: There are somethings that I wasn’t 100% honest about

David: I wasn’t going to mention it. We have all the time world to let down our defences and bare ourselves completely. We do not need to do that now. You have a lot going on - understandably. I am here in any way possible. If you need to rant, cry, or watch football. We do not need to make plans to meet, in fact, I think it is imperative with everything going on that we wait. And I am willing to wait for you

Tears spill over John’s cheeks - not in pain or anger - but in relief. He wishes this awful thing had not happened because he so very much wants to see this man and hold him. This faceless wonder has been his rock in a way he can never explain or repay. 

Mike: I don’t care how inappropriate it is but I wish to God I could kiss you now. I agree that we can’t for several reasons, but know that I still want that 

David: I do too. Take care of your family now. What is your daughter’s name, if I may ask?

John knows that it time to be truthful - even if it is in small bits. 

Mike: Her name is Willa. I named her after the friend I lost. I can’t wait for you to meet her

David: That moment will be truly amazing, when you are ready

“John! Dinner is ready!” Molly calls from the bottom of the stairs. 

Crap, John thinks. He doesn’t want to end this conversation but he does have so much to do.

"I'll be right down!" He calls back.

Mike: I have to go. I have a friend watching the baby while I made arrangements. Will you be available later?

David: I have to have dinner with my parents but I will check my phone. I can escape for a few minutes 

Sometimes John forgets that David is a real person with parents and obligations. It's oddly comforting to see life go on as usual, and he looks forward to a time when his life is normal again.

Mike: I'll check in later. Thank you for listening 

David: I will always be here for you

It is exactly the lift John needs on such a hard and distressing day. He feels some of the weight ease from his shoulders as he walks downstairs to greet Molly and Willa in the kitchen.

* * * * * *

 

In a bedroom 100 kilometers away, Sherlock presses his phone to his forehead. This has confirmed what he already knows - John and Mike are the same person. The friend caring for John and Willa is most likely Mrs. Hudson. It should be him - Sherlock should be the one taking care of them. 

He reads their brief chat again and can feel the warmth in John's words seep through the phone to warm his palm. It is surreal that with all the obstacles and distance, they would find their way to each other. Certainly Sherlock does not believe in fate or luck, but a strong attachment holds them together.

Sherlock's head snaps up when Mycroft clears his throat from the doorway.

"John?" He asks.

Sherlock pockets his phone. "What do you want?"

"Gather your things, we're moving you to London," Mycroft says.

Sherlock frowns. "Why now?"

"You need to be closer to the case and it will make your reintroduction easier."

"My reintroduction? Are you just going to shove me into Trafalgar Square?" Sherlock raises his eyebrows.

"I do not have a plan as such. I'm working on it." 

Shrugging, Sherlock gestures to the clock on the bedside table. "Of course. We have all the time in the world."

"Sherlock, have you forgotten who I am? I have several important responsibilities that I must see to. I have this case which includes trying to keep the public from going hysterical over what the press calls 'the Vampire of London'." Mycroft rolls his eyes.

Sherlock joins him. "That's incredibly original. Isn't your boyfriend managing that?" He doesn't disguise his mocking tone.

Mycroft chooses to ignore the comment. "Yes, but I have to secure the procurement of evidence for you."

"Where do 'they' think I am, Mycroft?" Sherlock tilts his head.

It's Mycroft's turn to lift an eyebrow. "They?"

"The ones who exiled me, your bosses. They must know I'm not in Russia." Sherlock had assumed Mycroft had not declared him legally deceased. However, that could be a reason that he’s been hidden in one of Mycroft’s various houses. 

Mycroft brushes invisible lint from his lapel. “The ones that can provide help and discretion are aware. That is all you need to know.”

“This is my life, Mycroft. Or whatever you have decided that I deserve of a life. I live in the shadows with aliases because you convinced me it was my only option. Now you say you are going to fix everything, yet you will not tell me how. You know very well that I cannot just run out to the street and start up where I left off. You at least owe me some honesty.” Sherlock pulls his full height up to stand nose to nose with his brother.

“I know it is fruitless in asking you to trust me because I know I do not deserve it. This is a delicate matter, Sherlock. You were sent away on a mission that you did not complete. While that is not your fault, that fact remains. Some will acquiesce that you have paid back your dues with what happened. However, there are some they will need convincing that you do not deserve prison or to be returned to finish the mission.” Mycroft’s voice trembles slightly. 

Sherlock steps back. “Is this why you did this? Because otherwise they were going to send me to prison or back there?”

Mycroft purses his lips. “Gather your things, Sherlock. We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

Mycroft departs, leaving questions buzzing in Sherlock's brain. Perhaps he is not completely free from his sentence. Maybe there are those who feel that he hasn't paid enough. Sherlock's life is a tangled mess of threads that require time and patience to delicately untangle. 

But today he is heading back to London and one step closer to being Sherlock Holmes again. He'll be closer to John, an exciting and terrifying prospect. It will take every ounce of willpower to not slip out to the streets under the cover of darkness just to see him. 

Carefully, Sherlock pulls the pins from the wall and removes the pages of evidence, scraps of theories and the photos of the victims to arrange in organised piles. His clothes will be tossed in a large suitcase with little care. Though if he's to rejoin society, he may need to dress in something more than pyjama bottoms and threadbare cotton shirts. 

He pauses on that thought: rejoining the world. The concept has crossed his mind in the moments that he had planned to meet Mike, but he had not considered the reality or the consequences of leaving the house without Mycroft’s approval. Until Mike, Sherlock had been reasonably satisfied to stay indoors. In his early years, he had been perfectly happy to lock himself in laboratory with his chemicals and formulas. He could go days and even weeks without talking to another person. However, people change and the people they meet help to change them. 

How will his introduction to the world be planned? He is only dead to his closest friends, and of course they will feel betrayed. Even Sherlock feels betrayed by not having a choice all those months ago when his body screamed in pain and his head had been heavy with drugs. The facts were not presented to him so that he could make an informed decision about his own life. However, choice is not something he often has the luxury of - Moriarty had chosen that he would die in front of John. Sherlock had returned later than he wanted. John had chosen to move on with Mary, and the only choice that Sherlock had was to accept it and stand by his friend. 

 

He stands back to look at the constellation of pinholes in Mycroft’s hideous maroon wallpaper. He is certain to get an earful over this. Yet Sherlock could spray paint smiley faces on every wall of the house and it would barely compare to the reparations Mycroft needs to make for his grave misstep. Often he wonders how Mycroft had managed to convince his parents to keep Sherlock locked away from the world. It feels like that has occurred all his life - keeping him hidden from the world, whether it be in a lab, a rehab facility or in a room with cold case files. There is definitely more behind Mycroft’s reasons this time, and Sherlock needs to discover them. Maybe then he can forgive his brother.


	62. Chapter 62

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has tucked away most of the photographs containing Mary and him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick update before I go on vacation. The next chapter will probably be longer than a week since I won't be at my house. I hope to be writing while away so I can have my betas correcting my typos and fleshing out my thoughts. They truly have a thankless job. :) But I would be nowhere without them. 
> 
> Thank you for everyone who has read and continues to read. I hope that you enjoy this small chapter. Thank you for your comments and discussion. It means a lot to me that this story means anything to someone other than me. 
> 
> I have plotted it a great deal so we have a long ways to go. Don't worry. I don't have that long before a reunion, but the story is more than just them getting together. They will have ot learn how to be John and Sherlock again - and still walk the path David and Mike were heading down. 
> 
> Have a great day!

John has tucked away most of the photographs containing Mary and him. The ones in the bedroom are completely removed. He keeps one in Willa's room and one on a bookshelf in the sitting room. Willa has stopped calling for 'mama' and John is relieved. He will keep Mary's memory alive for her, but he can build her as a loving faultless mother instead of the reality.

With Clara’s help, John transforms his bedroom by moving the bed to the other side of the room and changing the floral curtains to a masculine dark blue. Harry boxes up the rest of her clothes with many colourful comments about their lack of style.

"I guess when you only wear all black for years, you've no idea how to dress."

"She certainly did her research on how to look like a lumpy housewife."

"The homeless can burn these to keep warm. Even they have more fashion sense."

John feels a little guilty for chuckling, but laughter is the best medicine. He cannot remember a time when he and Harry got on so well, and he relishes his time with her.

Harry pulls out a photo of John and Sherlock from the wedding.

"You were handsome," she clucks. "Now that's a lovely couple."

"Harriet!" John's cheeks grow warm.

"You look very happy there." She places it on the nightstand beside the bed.." I really wish he was here for you."

"You would have hated him. He could be really unpleasant." John smiles sadly.

"He would just be defending you and keeping your best interests at heart," Harry says as she tapes up another box.

John looks over, startled by her statement.

"You don't know about that, do you?" She sits at the edge of the bed. "In one of my more altered states, I called him after he came back. I think it was when you started going round with him again. I called him blindingly arsed drunk and gave him the what for. He listened to everything until I ran out of steam. Then he began to pull me apart. He held nothing back. I was outraged - how could THIS person be your friend? How could you even like someone who is clearly an arsehole? But he was right. I was killing myself and the relationships around me. I was self medicating a disease and was going to end up dead. And you didn't deserve to lose another person in your life." She looks to John who joins her on the bed. "He said that if he could do it over, he would do it all differently somehow. He would never put you through that."

John purses his lips together to prevent tears. In the past few days, he has cried unresolved tears for Sherlock. He's not a religious man, but he finds himself talking to Sherlock and asking for strength.

Harry takes her brothers hand. "He loved you in his own really fucked up way. I believe that wholeheartedly." 

John nods somberly. "He did, he really did." He slips his hand between the mattresses and pulls out the tattered letter. "He wrote me a letter."

"How many times have you read this?" She unfolds the letter. "Did you rip this?"

"No, I told you that Mary left right before she disappeared. She found this while I was at work, and you can imagine that she didn’t take iit well," John says sourly. 

"It's starting to make sense, big brother," Harry sighs. "Can I read it?"

John shrugs. "We've no secrets now." Except for David, he thinks. He's not ready to share that much of his life with her.

He watches her eyes skim over Sherlock's scrawl. He notices the arch of her eyebrows, the catch in her breath.

"Oh John, why didn't you tell me? How long ago was this?" She gasps.

"The spring. Look, it was or is still classified so I didn't tell anyone but the people who knew him best. There's been nothing official or a service even." Anger rises in him as he thinks of the unfinished business surrounding Sherlock’s death.

There has been no service to celebrate the extraordinary person Sherlock was, no opportunity for his friends and family to comfort one another. Meanwhile John gives Mary a memorial that she doesn't deserve. 

"I'm sorry you couldn't tell me and I wasn't here for you." She turns back to the tattered page. Her eyes become glassy as she reaches the end of the short but powerful letter. 

"That's beautiful and very Sherlock," she sniffs.

John nods silently and folds his letter back to tuck into the breast pocket of his shirt. "So he was the one that convinced you to get help?"

"He was the one that got me to really think about it. Then I told Clara about my conversation with Sherlock, and we talked all night about the things we wanted in life.." she blushes. "Like children and such."

John blinks. "Are you?"

Harry shakes her head. "No yet. We are starting the process. I've been giving myself shots to prepare. Next month, we start with IVF."

John first nudges, then hugs Harry. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"We wanted to tell people when we were pregnant. It could be a long process, so....but there. Now I've shared something." She grins.

"I'm so glad you are here." He wraps his arms around Harry and breathes in her scent. 

Even after all this time, she still uses the same lavender body wash and it reminds him of home. While it wasn't always a pleasant place, something in her scent grounds him to an easier time.

The Watson is house is filled with voices again. Even before Mary disappeared, silence had overtaken the home. Words were spoken in polite murmurs. With Clara and Harry here, Willa claps and laughs. John enjoys listening to the domestic conversations between his sister and her wife. They tease, bicker over silly things and make up with giggles. He wishes that they could extend their stay beyond two weeks. 

Clara cooks and dotes on Willa while Harry is a steady presence beside John as he packs away Mary's things and visits the funeral home. At Harry's urging, he decides to not have Mary cremated. 

"You need to give Willa a place to visit her when she's old enough," Harry offers.

John reluctantly agrees. In his haste to move on, he has forgotten what might be best for Willa in the long term. With Harry's help, he picks out a tasteful headstone with just the words 'loving mother and wife'.

On the day Mary is buried, a bright sun rises but offers no warmth against the chilly wind. Clara stays home with Willa while the limousine pulls up to the house to collect Harry and himself. John is armed with Sherlock's letter in his breast pocket, giving him strength to see this day through. Kissing the top of his daughter's head, John departs for the funeral home for the last time. His knee bounces anxiously. 

"It's a quick service," Harry reassures him. 

The tiny chapel adjacent to the funeral home is the perfect setting for the short service. The room looks half full where a church would seem desolate and cold. Most of the mourners are John’s friends - Molly and her new paramour Archie. Greg is joined by Anderson and Sally - a surprise to John. Mrs. Hudson comes with Mrs. Turner who hands her tissues to blot her eyes. One large flower arrangement from the Holmes family dwarfs the modest carnation ensembles from his co-workers. John nods to some of the staff from the clinic. While they knew Mary during her short time working with John, no one can remember much about her other than her smile. They ask how he is, ask after Willa and promise to visit. In turn, John smiles weakly and nods numbly when what he really feels is more akin to an out of body experience. It’s as if he is floating above the room and watching this man go through the motions when he would rather be at home watching the football match. 

John declines giving a eulogy but then wonders how that must look to his friends. Hopefully they see a man too sad to say goodbye instead of a man who just wants to move forward in life. They don't have the slightest clue that he has lived his life always looking behind him. From his parent's' accident, through both of Sherlock's' deaths and now Mary - John needs to swim forward like a shark or he will certainly cease to exist. Unlike those other incidents, he does not have the luxury of someone to lean on. He is the one that needs to be strong - for Willa.

The service is blessedly short and sweet. The vicar reads a few passages celebrating Mary's life and welcomes her into God's loving embrace. The man of the cloth has no idea of her life before John, who is certain if there is judgement at the end of life that Mary is heading straight to hell to answer for all the lives she's taken. While the vicar blesses her, John purses his lips and feels like a bloody hypocrite. 

As John follows Mary's casket out of the chapel, he is shocked to see Anthea and Agent Carter by the door. For once, Anthea is not buried behind a mobile.

"Mycroft expresses his sympathy and apologises for not being able to attend." Her smile is kind and John detects a flicker of sympathy in her brown eyes. 

He's certain that Anthea is aware of the protection Mycroft has provided after Mary left the house over a week ago.

"Thank you, Anthea." John nods to her and Agent Carter.

"My condolences," Carter says simply. 

John thinks that it's odd that Mycroft sent anyone at all. After all he has sent the giant garden of flowers in the chapel. Perhaps Mummy Holmes is behind those. 

John doesn't have much time to dwell on the motivations of the Holmes family because Harry pulls him to the limousine. Mrs. Hudson has graciously offered to host a tea after the service. The knot that had relaxed in John's stomach tightens and twists as the car nears Baker Street. It still hurts to walk through the front door knowing he will never see the mad-man in the Belstaff waiting for him at the top of the stairs.

"You alright, John? Should we have hosted?" Harry asks.

John shakes his head. "No, it's fine. I can't escape if people are in my house. I'll be fine." He feels Sherlock’s letter through the pocket of his jacket as he pats his chest. 

While Mrs. Hudson's kitchen is smaller than the one in flat B, her sitting room is bigger and perfect for hosting tea. Mycroft has arranged for the affair to be catered with small sandwiches and tiny cakes. John is certain that Mycroft feels guilty for sending Sherlock off to Eastern Europe to get killed - even if he had no control over the situation.

The rest of the afternoon moves in slow motion. He chats a great deal with Mike Stamford who asks if he'll move back in with Sherlock now. It's an odd question, but John ponders the answer as if it is possible. Would he move back to Baker Street with Willa in tow if Sherlock was alive? There are too many ifs in that train of thought that he derails it immediately. He wishes that he could tell him about Sherlock. Perhaps one night, he'll invite Mike over for a few pints and tell him about Sherlock, and maybe the letter. Mike must have known something extraordinary would happen between Sherlock and John when he introduced them years ago.

By four o'clock, 221A Baker Street is wall to wall people and noisy. Faces appear in John's line of sight. He can see the lips forming familiar words of condolences, but he only hears the buzzing din of all the voices mixed into one. Under his suit jacket, his back is drenched in sweat and he can't breathe. 

"Cover for me, I need some air," he mutters to Harry.

"Do you need company?" she asks.

"No, I need some quiet." Slowly he slips out the door.

John wishes that he smoked to give his hands something to do while he sits on the stoop and watches people walk home from work. He fishes for his phone to see no messages. His fingers swipe across the screen.

How is Willa? JW

 

She's grand! We are just having over cooked pasta and applesauce. Then it's upstairs for a bath - C

When did she nap? JW

12:30 to 3. She’s still knackered. We took a walk and the fresh air just tired her out. How are you? C

Good. Taking a breather. We won't be much longer JW

No worries. I have a beef stew cooking for when you get home C

John smiles gratefully.

Love you Clara JW 

Love you too C

He's not quite ready to go back inside. His shoulders shrug against the cold. He blows into his fist to warm his left hand.

Mike: hey, I know you're most likely not online right now but the service is over and I'm at a friends house for tea. I can't wait till this is over.

It's probably poor form to be messaging David today of all days, but he just needs a friend that has no connection to his life with Mary. 

Mike: it was short and sweet, but I'm sick of thinking about it. Am I a bad person to just want to forget about it?

He needs to go back inside before someone comes looking for him. Maybe just another hour, then he can get home in time to put Willa to bed.

David: it's been a trying week, so it's perfectly natural to want to move forward. In a sense, the relationship was over for you. This has thrust you back into the role of a husband. I'm certain that the marriage looked idyllic from the outside. Only a select few know the truth.

John smiles down at his phone. Somehow David always has the perfect words at the right moment.

Mike: thank you. I feel a bit guilty for feeling this way

David: also natural. You can mourn the way she died. No matter your relationship with her, it is an awful way to end. You will be reliving this until the entire matter is settled. You are allowed to want an escape.

Mike: I wish you were here

David: I wish I could be there for you. We both know it's best not to complicate things further

John sighs because it's true. How would he introduce David to his friends and family? As of now, their relationship has no definition. Perhaps friends with possibilities?

Mike: my sister is here for another ten days. Perhaps once I get my feet under me, maybe we can meet for coffee or drink

David: I am happy that your sister is providing some comfort for you

Mike: she's been great. One day, I'll tell you all about it, but until recently I cou.ld never count on her. In the last few days, she has really been amazing. 

David: it pleases me to hear that. And I look forward to a drink or coffee. Whatever you feel is appropriate 

John looks over his shoulder to the door. Someone could pop out at any moment. Maybe he'll tell Harry about David before she leaves. He'll probably leave out the racy chat sessions, but enough to let her know that he's met someone and that Clara and Harry can finally settle their bet about him being sexually attracted to men.

Mike: thanks for being available. I needed a break from the heavy sighs and sad looks

David: I am always here for you

John runs his fingers through his hair and scratches at his beard. He should probably shave before they meet, get rid of the man of the mountain loner look.

Mike: I sincerely appreciate that

David: take care, Mike. Chat tomorrow?

Mike: I look forward to it

John closes the chat feeling some of the weight lift from his shoulders. It's time to go back inside and thank his friends for coming by, he wants to go home and hold his daughter.

 

 

 

.


	63. Chapter 63

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock paces in front of the wall. The study in Mycroft's London estate is vast in comparison to the tiny room Sherlock had occupied in Cambridge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only took two weeks for this update. We can thank a belly ache while on vacation that gave me a quiet afternoon so I could write. Thank you for the quick work of my betas for getting this back to me. They have lives and they take time out to read my mind mess and put it right - like John Watson.
> 
> Thank you for everyone's patience and waiting for the newest update. Of course, thank you for reading and commenting.

Sherlock paces in front of the wall. The study in Mycroft's London estate is vast in comparison to the tiny room Sherlock had occupied in Cambridge. In fact, everything seems palatial in the house. There are separate staircases for staff, and two wings - east and west. Sherlock had only been to this house a handful of times - holidays years ago or the rare occasion he was forcibly summoned. He had never made it past the study or foyer. Now, this is his home until Mycroft can bring him back to life and into the light.

Lestrade ponders the photos tacked to the wall. Sherlock has arranged them in order which is different from the seemingly haphazard evidence wall at Baker Street.

"This is very linear," he comments, his eyes following the photos of the victims down to the pictures of the clue found within each one. Beneath that are coroner's notes, Sherlock's observations and the victim's history. 

"I thought it might help if I made it as simple as possible for you," Sherlock mutters absentmindedly.

Slowly, Sherlock's condescension has been surfacing. He is still surprised to see Greg moving about Mycroft's house, but seems to be warming to the fact. For his part, Greg masks his reaction to Sherlock's face better each day. It's not that it is hideous, but Greg sometimes forgets when he hears Sherlock insulting the Met just like he used to. 

"He wants you to find him." Sherlock points to the clues. "He's leaving breadcrumbs. They just don't make sense. A bank note, tea bag, chlorine tablet, flash drive and Tube map. Nothing on the flash drive aligns with the victims."

"It was just birth announcements on that drive, right?" Greg pulls out a piece of paper from Mycroft's large desk.

"And obituaries. I cross checked them with relatives of the victims. Nothing. Nothing that links these people together. None of these other victims even used the bank that one victim worked for. As far as I can tell, none of these people ever crossed paths. They come from different areas of London. They all look different, have different blood types." Sherlock grows increasingly agitated. "Maybe if I could talk to the families."

Greg turns around. "You know you can't do that yet."

Sherlock fists his curls. "I know, but it's like putting a blindfold on a photographer. I gain so much information from observation and I can't solve this from pictures and notes!"

"You could give me a list of questions to ask," Greg suggests feebly.

"It's not the same!" Sherlock snaps. "I need to see their faces, how they hold themselves. Do they look down? What do they do with their hands."

The pacing picks up speed. Greg is certain that Sherlock will wear a path in Mycroft's floors.

"I can have someone take notes." Greg braces for the onslaught of insults.

"Let's give that task to Anderson, shall we?" Sherlock snips, then pauses. "Actually..."

"Anderson hasn't worked for Met in over four years. He turns up at crime scenes and pretends to be you. It's pathetic really," Greg says.

"I need to speak with these people, Lestrade. It's the only way I can actually do my job." Sherlock gestures to the wall. "This is not enough!"

"Soon. Your brother is working on it." Greg lays a hand on Sherlock's arm - the scarred one. There's no flinching away from the hard skin, Sherlock notices.

"I hate to imagine what he has planned," Sherlock grumbles and moves to the desk. Close contact still makes him feel anxious. Though Greg has shown no reaction, Sherlock hides his right side in shadow as best he can. 

Greg can feel Sherlock withdraw into himself. For the most part, he is the same insufferable prat as before - but there are moments when Sherlock is so overwhelmed by his situation that the walls go up. He will retreat to his bedroom or go for a walk to the garage and return reeking of smoke. 

"What do you think he's trying to tell us?" Greg asks, attempting to draw Sherlock back to the case.

Tea bag. Bank note. Chlorine tablet. Flash drive. Train schedule. 

Sherlock steps closer to the wall. "Westminster was circled, but faded. He placed the schedule inside her vagina before she was dead."

"How do you know?" Greg frowns.

"Postmortem, the vagina would be dry. Depending how long he waited, of course. When we die, all the muscles eventually relax and bodily fluids release. See how faded and discoloured the ink is? Her vaginal walls were moist when he inserted the map. He could have done it days before she died." Why Westminster, Sherlock wonders.

"Sick bastard," Greg swears. "So sexual assault on top of murder."

"It was not a sexual act, it was to make a point. We've been going on the assumption that these victims are not related, or have no clear link. I believe these victims were not just random people who just happened to be in the wrong place at right time. Just by his meticulous placement of the clues. He's telling a story but I can't see the big picture." Sherlock's eyes switch to Mary. "What was her part? What did he know?"

He whirls around quickly. "Are any of these victims related in any way to the Moriarty case?"

Greg shakes his head. "I don't know. I'll have to make a call and get those files."

"Do it." Sherlock paces with excitement.

"He's dead, Sherlock. You saw for yourself. You can't fake that."

A twinge of guilt plucks at Sherlock's heart. What he put his friends through all those years ago was necessary but difficult. 

"Yes, and I worked to dismantle his web. I was pulled out early, assured that the job had been complete. What if there was a tiny spider egg left behind?" He pauses and considers his next question carefully. "Has John ever talked about Mary's past with you?"

"No," Greg answers. 

Sherlock ponders how much he should tell Greg. While he was never able to find a direct thread linking Mary to Moriarty - the coincidence of an ex-CIA operative coming across John and woo him had always been hard to ignore. Even on the day of John's wedding, Sherlock had been wary of the marriage. 

"Mycroft told me. After we found you that night that you…..you know, he confessed…...everything. He told me about Mary's past, the fact that she was the one who shot you." Greg shakes his head. "You should have told me, Sherlock."

"You would have arrested her," Sherlock replies with his eyes fixed on the evidence wall.

"Of course I would have bloody arrested her!" 

Sherlock turns to an agitated Greg. "I know. I couldn't have that. It would have destroyed John and that wasn't the focus. Magnussen was. John needed his wife to not be in jail because she would have escaped with his unborn daughter and he would have never seen her again. I was never going to allow that to happen."

Greg’s fists ball up in frustration. "No, instead you risked everything to keep them together even though you were in love with him. You went so fucking far that you killed for him only to get sent to Russia and certain death according to your brother!"

Sherlock's lips curl into a humourless smirk. "I'm not dead, am I?"

"You tell me. Has being under house arrest been living?"

Sherlock's eyes flash anger. "What do you know? All your skin is pink and fresh. You can walk outside unnoticed, just another man going to a pub or his job or sneaking to his gay lovers house." His eyes narrow. "Mycroft doesn't run his fingers over the damaged ridges of your skin, or think back to what you used to look like! Yes, I am breathing and standing before you. Yes, my mind is still sharp. But whatever hope I had for a future died when I discovered that Mike is John. Can you understand that?"

"Sherlock," Greg starts but he is interrupted by the chime of the front door’s security alarm. Mycroft is home.

Sherlock turns back to the wall, and focuses on the clues and the victims. If a tiny cell within Moriarty's organisation has been missed, who else could be in danger?

"I could hear you from the driveway." Myoft stops short when he sees the evidence wall. "Oh Sherlock..."

"Yes?" but he does not turn around to look at his brother.

"This is my library, my office. Look what you've done. It's bad enough that I need to wallpaper the bedroom in Cambridge again, but I do use this room." Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose. How John Watson ever endured living with Sherlock for 2 years will always be a mystery as his brother has absolutely no sense of personal boundaries or respect for personal belongings.

"I couldn't very well put this in my bedroom if Lestrade is working with me." Sherlock shrugs casually. "I doubt you want him spending time in my boudoir."

"Don't be vulgar, brother mine," Mycroft responds sourly. "I hope that my wall has not been desecrated in vain and there has been some progress made."

"When do I rise from the grave?" Sherlock asks snappishly. 

"Always rushing to put the cart before the horse." Mycroft shakes his head then turns to Greg. "Any progress?"

"Some, maybe. He's right though. We need him in the field," Greg says.

"You think something like that is easy," Mycroft sighs and sits behind his desk. "Didn’t you wonder where I had gone?"

Sherlock frowns. "Were you gone?"

"Do you think I would have allowed this otherwise?" He gestures to the wall behind him. "I was in Sweden taking some important meetings. What my brother doesn't know is that he has more than one status."

"Multiple?" Now Greg frowns. Why must everything with the Holmes family be so complicated?

Leaning back in his dark leather chair, Mycroft folds his hand in front of him before launching into his explanation. "There are those who know of Sherlock's true status - alive but injured. Obviously everyone in my household, our parents,some trusted agents and now you. There are those that believe he is dead - John Watson, the landlady, and a few others that I told John he could tell."

"Didn't he ask why it was so secretive?" Sherlock asks.

"Not at first. I think he was skeptical, then distressed. He did question it, eventually. I informed him that it was the fact that you were a private citizen sent to carry out a high level government job. The details of Magnussen's death were concealed but they could easily be leaked if people were to question why you were sent to Russia." Mycroft stands behind the desk.

"I bet he still doesn't believe you," Sherlock mutters.

"He believed enough to join a grief chat room and start picking up men," Mycroft retorts.

"That was personal!" Sherlock hisses. "And that's not what happened!"

Greg steps in between them. "Are there more?"

Mycroft drops his gaze to Greg's weathered brown shoes. "Yes. Some in my organisation believe he is still in Russia in deep cover."

"Then you need to tell them he's really alive?" Greg asks innocently.

"It's not as easy as that, Gregory," Mycroft responds gravely.

A sneer plays on Sherlock's lips. "There's more isn't there, brother?"

"Some think that he's lying in a coma in a rehabilitation hospital in Sweden," Mycroft states.

Greg wipes his forehead. "What? How many stories have you told?"

"As many as I needed to tell," Mycroft snaps at the inspector. 

Greg has never seen Mycroft shed the cool exterior of control - even in the bedroom - he was always holding something back and away from Greg. Mycroft's gaze fixes on his younger brother.

"We have enemies, you and I. For good reasons and no reason, but they are out there. I stare at them in meetings and committees and fear that some will feel as though you have not completed your sentence as you are now." He loosens his tie as if there is not enough air in the room.

"Should I have lost a limb? A pound of skin doesn't hold a premium these days?" Sherlock asks bitterly.

"And this is why I was away. Your re-entry needs be crafted carefully," Mycroft sinks into a leather chair across from the desk.

"Crafted?" Greg raises his eyebrows. "Sounds like a lie."

"A tale," Mycroft counters. "A delicate tale that will allow Sherlock to come back to life."

"Christ Mycroft, no more lies!" Greg sighs. "I had to stand beside John as he buried his wife and pretend I didn't know Sherlock was breathing on the other side of the city!"

Sherlock flinches when he hears this. He moves to the window and tries not to think of John at the funeral. About how much he longed to be there, but instead David had to comfort John from a distance, on a piece of cold technology.

"Exactly Gregory. Do you think it's wise to pop Sherlock back into John Watson's life after everything he's been through? Do you think a lie is crueler, to let him think that Sherlock has been in a coma on another continent and that's why he was not there for John's time of need?" Mycroft twists in his chair.

"And what about David? Do we just kill him off?" Sherlock asks without emotion.

"Once John learns that there was a grave mistake and that you've been found in Russia after months of unconsciousness, I believe that David will be given his walking papers," Mycroft says coolly. 

Sherlock whirls around. "Are you so sure about that?"

"I'm sure David would bow out gracefully after he learns that the man John was in love with and has been grieving all these months is suddenly alive." Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose to stop the dull pain behind his eyes. "It really does not have to be this difficult."

"You expect us to lie to John," Greg says incredulously. 

Mycroft stands. "I expect that you want what's best, and in this case, the truth is not. This course of action removes any culpability from Sherlock." 

"As if I were in control of that decision back then," Sherlock snaps.

Mycroft crosses the library to stand in front of Sherlock. "How do you suggest we announce to John that you've been alive all this time and have been wooing him under a false identity?"

"That's not what's been going on!" The hair on the back of Sherlock's neck prickles.

"It's what it will look like to him. How do you think he will react?" Mycroft asks.

Sherlock shifts his gaze to the carpet with defeat. "He'll shut down, perhaps run off."

Mycroft clasps Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm attempting to spare you both unnecessary hurt. We need to go about this wisely."

"How are you planning to proceed?" Sherlock's voice is small and tight.

Mycroft gives his shoulder a pat then walks behind his desk after feeling the control slip firmly back in his grasp. 

"Next week, I will visit John with the news that there has been a report that someone matching your description has been located in Eastern Europe, and we're following the leads." Mycroft threads his fingers together on top of the desk.

"That will drive him insane," Greg says and steals a glance at Sherlock. "You know that, right?"

"I am trying to buy time. This needs to be rolled out in phases. The next phase will be telling John that we are bringing Sherlock home."

"What is he supposed to say about his time away? Either way, you're asking him to lie. Too many people know, and he's bound to find out. Someone is likely to fuck it up!" Greg rages.

"He can say that he was unconscious and doesn't remember anything but pain. He can say he only wanted to return to John. They can heal together," Mycroft states as calmly as he can but the break in his voice gives him away.

"How are you going to fix it when John finds out the truth?" Greg rests his palms on the desk and stares down at his lover.

Feeling unnecessary in the conversation, Sherlock slips out the door unnoticed by either seething man. His head pounds with both arguments as there is truth in both. Mycroft is trying to be delicate with John's emotional state. And while that is kindest in the short term, what happens later? Resentment, hurt and anger. Add the possibility of John never speaking to him again, and Sherlock wants to delay his meeting with John as long as possible. He needs to prepare answers to John's questions. Then brace himself for the eventual rejection. Even if John can extend his friendship, Sherlock is certain he won't be able to move past the scars. Perhaps John is fooling himself when he says he doesn't care how David looks. What if he was appalled at first glance? Sherlock shakes his head sullenly. No matter how this plays out, he is certain to lose John forever.

Might as well enjoy this now, he thinks as he pulls his phone from his trousers.

David: how are you today?

He's pleasantly surprised that his phone buzzes in response.

Mike: good, returning to work 3 days a week. It's good to get started while my sister is here

David: how is Willa?

Mike: she's okay. We had a few sleepless nights. 

David: how old is she?

He knows exactly how old Willa is - he's seen the announcement on John's Facebook. Precious Willa is almost eight months old. In preparation for meeting Mike's son, Sherlock had read What to Expect in the First Year. Granted, he had thought he might meet a one year old boy instead of an eight month old girl.

Mike: eight months. 

David: teething? Is she still calling for her mum?

Mike: less often lately. Only when she wakes at night and not every night. I don't miss Mary one bit, but I feel awful Willa will miss having that influence in her life

David: I'm sorry. I'm here if you need me

It is the same thing Sherlock says every time they chat. His stomach tightens into knots with the fear that John will suggest they met soon - like that day or the next. How could he stall after offering his services day after day?

Mike: thanks. Hopefully we can meet soon. Things are still....

Sherlock sighs in relief.

David: complicated, I know. It's fine. It's always fine. Take all the time you need. 

Mike: I hate making you wait

David: where am I going to go? I'm a scarred agoraphobic. I can wait

Mike: lol. I swear, only you and Willa can make me smile. Thank you

Sherlock's heart feels like it might collapse from the weight of fear and guilt. Someday soon, these sweet nothings will be a distant memory stretching as far as John's affection and proximity. Once John realises how long Sherlock has been alive and conscious as well as knowingly deceiving him, he will move up north with his sister - never to speak to Sherlock again.

David: that's all I want - is to make you happy. 

He swallows the lump in his throat.

David: I should let you go. I'm sure you have things to do and dinner will ready soon. Talk tomorrow?

Mike: absolutely. Tomorrow 

Sherlock pockets his phone and glances over his shoulder. No one has followed him outside. Quietly, he slips through the front door. The door to the library is now closed. Sherlock creeps closer to press his ear against the door. The voices are more conversational, almost hushed. Shaking his head, he doesn't want to think why the door is closed. Suddenly, Greg's voice rises above a normal volume with Mycroft's directly behind it. 

Quietly, Sherlock pads upstairs to his room in the East Wing. Unlike the Cambridge house, he has a separate sitting area and not one but two fireplaces. His en suite bathroom has a shower and soaking tub. And unlike the other house, his windows face the west and leave his room blessedly dark in the morning hours.

Sherlock presses his back against the door until he hears it clicking closed. Someone has turned on the table lamps casting a bedroom larger than the entire second floor of Baker Street in a warm glow. Resigned, Sherlock moves to the sitting room to pause beside an old piano that once belonged to his great-grandmother. Slowly he stoops to retrieve the violin resting beside it. He rolls up his shirtsleeves before hoisting the smooth wooden instrument to his left shoulder. 

It's taken months to retrieve the dexterity in his right arm. He remembers how tight and painful his skin felt the first few times he had played - painful enough so that he had packed it away until the night after he examined Mary. John being thrust back into his world had inspired him to work through the pain and play again. It has been over a year since he has felt the inspiration to compose. Yet with John dancing on the edge of Sherlock's life, he is filled with with renewed purpose. Even if the good doctor stays by Sherlock's side for only a brief time before he leaves forever.


	64. Chapter 64

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The strings of the violin are warm under his fingers as they fill the study with discordant notes. Another night without sleep toiling over the case and the ‘John’ problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all the eyes that look this over for me - just to be sure I have it right. You are all my John Watson. Thank you callie4180 and jen221b for being my guinea pigs. Thank you to Irene, Burning Up The Sun and Fruitbat for all their work on my behalf. It's a thankless job beyond my eternal thanks. 
> 
> Thank you readers for being patient while it took me 2 weeks to get this out. Labor Day and going back to school really ate my time up. And this went in for repairs over the week and I hope it satisfies. Thank for reading and sharing your thoughts. I truly love engaging with you.

The strings of the violin are warm under his fingers as they fill the study with discordant notes. Another night without sleep toiling over the case and the ‘John’ problem. Earlier, Mycroft had shown Sherlock the file he was preparing to give to John the following week. According to the file, Sherlock has been discovered to be alive in an Eastern European hospital within rebel territory and would be transported to a first class retreat in London to be examined and debriefed. John will not be able to see him for at least a week. 

"You don't think he'll put two and two together and realise I'm David?" Sherlock had asked. 

"I think he'll be so overjoyed you are alive that it will not occur to him," had been Mycroft's response.

Sherlock is not convinced and knows that his brother underestimates John. It's possible that it will not dawn on him immediately, but Sherlock knows it will only be a matter of time. Then there will be nothing he can say to make John stay.

He sets the violin on the overstuffed chair meant to resemble John's chair at Baker Street. Perhaps he should tell John before Mycroft sets the wheels in motion. The last time he had come back to John, he hadn't given it much thought. He had been insensitive and thoughtless to just pop in on his old friend. 

This time, he needs to be careful. Sherlock isn't certain he is ready to face John's rejection, or the pity if he can forgive the latest deception. It is moments like these when Sherlock wishes that he had taken Mycroft's suggestion to move to Australia to start a new life, because his current one is in such chaos. 

He runs a hand through unkempt curls. Mycroft's timeline is a week or two. Sherlock has a few days to think about how else he could return to John. Would Greg go against his boyfriend and help him? After all, Greg has been an outspoken skeptic of Mycroft's plan. Would he help Sherlock against Mycroft's wishes?

Then there is Carter, a seemingly loyal friend. On a few occasions, he could have easily reported Sherlock's various activities to Mycroft, yet has been a capable confidante. His stomach turns when he thinks back to the night Carter had brought him to the brothel. He had cleaned up a sick and distressed Sherlock plus he has kept his confidence about that night’s activities. 

Sherlock gazes out the window at the leaves scattering in the late November wind. He feels the chilly air escape through the old panes. He decides to take a day to consider whom he can trust more. If he's going to defy Mycroft, he needs to carefully consider his next move.

The front pocket of his trousers buzzes once, then twice. Sherlock frowns. What does Mycroft want now? 

He's surprised to see Greg's name flash on the screen. "Yes?"

"We need you at the morgue - now." Greg sounds winded as if he’s been running. 

Something is definitely wrong. "What is it, Lestrade?"

"I-I can't say." Greg's voice is muffled. In the background, a car horn blares and tires screech.

Sherlock's heart races. "For God's sake, Greg, just spit it out." He's already reaching for his coat.

"It's Mike, Sherlock." Greg's voice breaks. "Mike Stamford."

The blood drains from Sherlock's face. "How?" Closing his eyes, he braces for Greg's answer.

"We found him by the tracks in Romford. He was like the others, completely drained."

Sherlock's mind seizes like a motor without oil. His extremities tingle and go numb. His vision becomes a closing tunnel of black. 

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" Greg's voice comes from the end of that long tunnel. "Sherlock!"

Suddenly, his mind whirs to life and gains speed with every thought. The key he needs has presented itself. He had a feeling these were somehow connected to himself. Since Mary's murder, he had felt the hot breath of death panting down the back of his neck. The roads were leading to him, but how could he prove it? He hadn't known those first victims, had he? Now, there is no mistake about that connection.

"John," escapes from Sherlock's lips.

"Mycroft is working on getting him followed. How can we tell him he might be in danger? I mean without telling him..." Greg says.

"You have to get him and the child to safety!" Sherlock barks. 

"Mycroft is working on it. That's why I'm calling. Carter will be at the house in ten minutes." Greg honks the horn. "I've a fucking light on, move!"

"Where are you?" Sherlock grabs a dark coat with a hood. It's only one in the afternoon. Usually, he waits until dark to leave the house.

"Heading to the morgue now. I just left the scene. I've told them to not touch a bloody thing, we'll get you access after the autopsy. Dr. Ian is waiting until you get there." Greg curses under his breath and blares the horn again.

Sherlock is already pacing in the entryway for Carter. "Fine. Tell Mycroft I want a status update on John as soon as he gets it."

He wishes that he could see with his own eyes that John is safe, but one thing at a time. He can send Carter to check on John after he is dropped off at the hospital.

"I will," Greg says gravely. 

Sherlock doesn't utter a farewell before pocketing his phone. Despite Mycroft's estate being heavily guarded and extremely private, he pulls the hood over his head when Carter drives up to the house. 

"As fast as you can," is his greeting when he slumps low in the backseat.

"Yes sir," Carter nods tightly.

With traffic, it should take eighteen minutes to get to Bart's. Sherlock closes his eyes to concentrate. 

It's clear to him that neither Mycroft's plan nor his own will be feasible in regards to John. A threat lurks in London, and John is a possible target. Sherlock cannot allow John languish in ignorance any longer. If anything ever happened to him or Willa, Sherlock would never forgive himself. 

First things first - he needs to examine Stamford, the body. Then he'll be off to the site where the body was found. After that, he can figure out how to handle the ‘John’ situation. 

With a heavy sigh, he rests his forehead against the cold window. In the middle of all this emotional turmoil, a very dangerous man must be be stopped. While there has been a tragic loss of life at the hands of one person, they seemingly had no pattern or purpose. Now it is clear to Sherlock, these people all point to him in one way or another. And their association only grows closer to himself. 

Who could be the enemy? Charles Magnussen had more enemies than friends. Sherlock had felt that a statue in his honour should have been erected when he took the snake's life, not being sent on a suicide mission. 

Did he leave a crucial piece of Moriarty's crime web intact? Could this stem from the dead criminal? Sherlock shakes his head. No, he and Mycroft had been very thorough, perhaps more than required, to ensure the web and anyone connected to it was neutralised or destroyed.

"We're here," Carter says into his phone, bringing Sherlock out of his head. "I'm in the back, as usual."

Sherlock recognises the same agents disguised as doctors and custodial staff lingering by the receiving doors. Soon, he will be able to walk through the front doors. Subconsciously, his fingers run over the hard skin on his left cheek. Will he ever feel as confident striding down the halls of Bart's as he had before? 

Carter hops from the front seat to open Sherlock's door who pulls the dark hood over his wild curls. It dawns on him that perhaps he should have showered. He's wearing yesterday's trousers and dress shirt which is desperate need of an iron. 

Hunching his shoulders against the daylight, Sherlock moves swiftly to the open doors to sweep briskly down the hall. Carter and another 'doctor' flank him at either side. The hallway is empty for a weekday afternoon. Mycroft must have cleared the entire section of Bart's to ensure Sherlock's anonymity.

As expected, he is greeted by an increasingly anxious Dr. Ian, who furiously cleans the lens of his glasses with the hem of his white lab coat. Mycroft and Greg stand to the side, deep in conversation. Upon seeing Sherlock, they move apart. 

"Where is John?" Sherlock asks.

Mycroft looks down at the mobile in his hand. "He is on staff at the clinic. He is safe. I have a team at his house where his sister Harry is with Willa."

"Is anyone watching the clinic?" Sherlock removes his coat.

"I have someone at the clinic as well. He is armed and will be joined by Carter when you are finished here," Mycroft answers calmly.

"Let's begin then." Sherlock rolls his shirt sleeves to his elbows. His gaze falls on the one place he has avoided thus far - the body. “Dr. Ian, have you done an initial analysis?”

Dr. Ian shakes his head. “I was told to not go near the body until you got here.”

Usually that would satisfy Sherlock, but today he wants get through this autopsy as fast as possible. Once he is done, he will be whisked off to the crime scene. Then he needs to talk with Mycroft about how to protect John. He should be concentrating on the evidence before him, but his concern over John is like white noise droning in the background of his mind.

His eyes rest on the naked form of Mike Stamford, a man he never got around to thanking. If not for Mike’s chance meeting with a newly invalided John Watson, Sherlock’s life would lack the colours the doctor brings. Even if Sherlock is not in touch with John, just knowing he is out there in the world makes it a better place. 

It has been over year since he has seen Mike. Sherlock had been disappointed that the Stamfords hadn’t attended John’s wedding. Unfortunately emergency surgery for a blocked artery had been the reason Mike had missed the joyous day. Sherlock notices the scar down the front of his chest. Despite his brush with near death, it is clear that Mike had not changed his diet or taken up exercise as folds of skin sag to the metal table. 

Sherlock snaps on the gloves to begin his examination. 

“No sign of a struggle. Some bruising on the arm consistent with bumping into a wall on the way to the bathroom a few nights before his death,” Sherlock says.

Dr. Ian glances up with a quirked eyebrow.

“I have done extensive research on bruising with postmortem corpses. See how the edges are yellow? That suggests that the contusion occurred approximately two to three days before death. Our suspect usually keeps his victims alive for three to five days. Either this occurred the night before he was abducted or our murder is becoming nervous or excited. He is killing the victims in a shorter period.” Sherlock looks to Greg. “Was Mike reported missing?”

“Apparently his wife did go to the City Police who didn’t communicate with us. Internal Affairs is looking into it because someone dropped the ball,” Greg says. “He had been missing for four days, but his wife was visiting her mum for three days. So he could’ve been missing longer.”

“Work didn’t ask?” Sherlock straightens his back.

“He’s been on medical leave since the surgery. No one would have noticed right away.” Greg shrugs helplessly. 

Sherlock shakes his head with disgust. He envisions poor Mike Stamford making himself a microwaveable dinner each night his wife had been away. Or sitting at his favourite local eating chip buttys and washing them down with many beers. 

“Fine, so he could have been missing for up to seven days.” Sherlock looks under the fingernails. They show signs of tearing, meaning he had struggled. “There are marks on his wrists…..and ankles. He was restrained with something soft like silk or….” He peers closer. “Lambswool lined cuffs.”

“How?” Dr. Ian moves closer.

“See the light abrasions? He has a contact allergy to wool.” Sherlock returns to the neck. “Drugged, see the needle prick right at the carotid artery. See the scuffs at the knee and,” Sherlock feels along the forehead for a bump, “And he hit his head. Same method as Mar….the last victim.” He clears his throat. 

“Wasn’t strangled though..” Dr. Ian points out. 

“No, he wasn’t. No blunt force trauma. He wasn’t stabbed. Perhaps injected with ketamine? Have you ordered a toxicology report?” Sherlock asks.

“Not yet. I didn’t want to do anything before you came.” Dr. Ian steals a look over his shoulder to where Mycroft looms. 

“Get one, straight away. We need to know what was injected into the bloodstream.” Feeling suddenly nauseated, Sherlock takes a step back and a deep breath. 

Greg rushes to his side and lays a steady hand on the detective’s shoulder. “Alright Sherlock?”

“Yes, fine,” he answers gruffly, his cheeks growing warm. Scenes like these have never bothered him before. Perhaps too many familiar bodies to examine. “Let’s find the clue.”

Sherlock searches in the usual places - the mouth, throat, nasal cavity. He looks for new scars on the body indicating for a recent incision. It is possible that the clue could be slipped into an organ or placed just below the epidermis. Sherlock can’t help but noticing Mycroft checking his phone often. His brother’s normally beady eyes tighten as he taps a message before dropping his arm to his side. But he never slips the phone in his pocket. 

“Maybe he didn’t have time?” Greg suggests.

“No, there is always a clue. If not, then we have a sloppy copy cat.” His eyes flash to Greg. “No one has released any information to the press, have they?”

“No, I’ve kept the clues close to the vest. Not many outside this room know,” Greg says. 

Think Sherlock, he scolds. He remembers where the last clue had been discovered and his heart sinks. 

“Help me move him on his side,” Sherlock’s voice quivers slightly. 

With a bewildered frown, Dr. Ian pushes the body on its side. “Where?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “Last victim, the clue was in the vagina. Our suspect is growing bold - we need to check the anus.”

Dr. Ian blanches. “That’s disgusting.”

“It’s escalating,” Sherlock mutters. He tilts his head up. "I need help turning him."

Despite the gravity of the situation, he cannot help but smirk when Mycroft takes a step back. Of course his brother would never dirty his hands. While Greg faffs about, Carter has already snapped on the latex gloves.

"Thank you, Carter," Sherlock says pointedly in Mycroft's direction. 

With great effort, Dr. Ian and Carter turn Mike to his side. He is still quite heavy regardless of being drained of his blood. Sherlock's hand trembles slightly as he lubricates the clamp. Though the room is cold, sweat collects on his brow as he slowly probes the anal cavity. He does his best to forget conversations he has had with Mike - the endless cups of coffee in the lab. He tries to erase the knowing grin on Mike's face the day he introduced John to Sherlock. 

The clamp stops against something solid. Sherlock had hoped that he was wrong. 

"You found it?" Carter studies Sherlock's face.

He can only nod as he slips a finger alongside the clamp. The object is small and hard. It takes a few minutes to pull it out. As Sherlock works, Greg inches closer to watch. 

The small stone object is surprisingly covered in only a small amount of fecal matter. Had Mike been starved in his final days? He didn't look undernourished. Had the murderer flushed Mike of all waste before inserting the object. 

"What is it?" Greg asks.

"Let's wash it off," Dr. Ian reaches for it.

"No!" Both Sherlock and Greg blurt. 

"You'll destroy any evidence that might be on it," Sherlock snaps. 

"What is it?" Greg asks.

Carefully, Sherlock holds it up to the light. The stone is actually pink marble. In the light, Sherlock sees the distinctive markings of ears and an upturned trunk. A pink elephant. 

"It's an elephant," Mycroft announces. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Greg asks.

"I'll need to analyse it," Sherlock mutters, his brain whirring through pictures and text.

Bank note. Tea bag. Chlorine tablet. Flash drive. Tube map with the Westminster stop circled. Pink elephant. 

Sherlock's eyes flutter.

Evidence? Clues? Clues to cases? Bank note. Obtain the serial number to locate the branch the note originated from. Tea bag. What kind of tea? How will that matter? It has to matter. 

Sherlock is so far into his mind palace that the voices around him become distorted like voices down the hall or from another room. He doesn’t want to lose focus long enough to tell them to shut the hell up. Mycroft’s voice crashes into his mind, with Greg’s following. Sherlock stares at the elephant. Why the elephant? The elephant in the room? 

He hears voices in the hallway.

“You can’t go in there!”

“Sir, we have an issue.” Was that Carter?

The doors open and seem to flood the morgue with light. Startled, Sherlock tears his eyes from the small pink elephant in his hand to the two figures before him. He blinks a few times seeing the stricken look on Molly’s face. His eyes shift left - and all time stops. His eyes lock on John’s stormy blue eyes. 

Everything moves in slow motion around him. 

John squeezes his eyes shut for a few seconds then opens them to focus on Sherlock who is absolutely rooted to the spot - frozen in fear. His heart pounds in his ears so loudly, it is deafening. John’s eyes cycle through confusion, to disbelief - from shock to rage. His face turns a deep shade of red in seconds, and the veins in his neck and forehead begin to pop. 

“What the fuck is this?” he rages. 

This is not happening, no. It was not meant to go like this. Sherlock’s breath catches, but he cannot look away from the fireball that is John.

Greg moves forward. “John, I can explain.”

Carter places himself in front of Sherlock. 

“What is the fuck is going on?” John’s voice trembles. 

Greg places his hands on John’s arms. “Let’s talk elsewhere….”

“But I thought….you told me…..what the fuck?” Tears rim John’s eyes. 

He sees me, Sherlock mumbles in his mind. This was not supposed to happen. I was supposed to have some control. 

Suddenly, Sherlock remembers his scars and realises that John can see them. He turns to the right, attempting to hide his burns. Yet his eyes stay locked on John’s thunderous glare. 

“John, please…” Greg implores. 

Mycroft takes a hesitant step forward. “John…”

Finally, John tears his eyes from Sherlock to scowl at Greg. “You knew. You fucking bastard!”

John rips away from Greg’s grip to reel back and throw a punch. He makes contact the inspector’s cheek. 

“Now John,” Mycroft starts. 

Carter moves into Sherlock’s personal space with his hands ready to defend Sherlock against John’s rage. 

“How could…” John laments before flying through the metals doors and away from Sherlock. 

“No...no...no,” Sherlock curls into himself. 

His left hand reaches for the metal table but finds empty air instead. He doesn’t feel the sensation of falling but the searing pain as his forehead makes contact with the edge of the metal table. Voices swim around him, but none of them belong to John. He feels Carter’s strong hands on him, yet the blackness surrounds him. He welcomes the cold tile under the tight skin of his left cheek. The smell of antiseptic mixed with bleach fill his nose. The voices fade. All he can see is John’s burning gaze before everything goes black.


	65. Chapter 65

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's leg jumps anxiously as he sits beside Molly in the taxi. The afternoon had been pleasant enough. A few easy cases of sinus infection and the flu then an impromptu invitation to lunch by Molly. She had received the text message about Mike as they discussed where to go to eat. His brain has not turned off since.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get to the see the scene play out from John's point of view. 
> 
> Thank you for your patience. This one clocked in at over 6600 words. Hey, remember when I promised short and frequent chapters? I am sorry. However stories have a tendency to write themselves to a degree. I hope this is worth the wait. 
> 
> Thank you to callie4180 and 221bjen for being my first pair of eyes. Thank you to Burning_up_the_sun and fruitbat for really taking me apart so that I put forward the best chapter I am capable of writing while working and being a mom. These ladies are talented writers and artists of their own - so check out their work!
> 
> Thank for reading, commenting, bookmarking and checking in when it's been awhile since updates. I'm working on 66 right now. I love you guys!

John's leg jumps anxiously as he sits beside Molly in the taxi. The afternoon had been pleasant enough. A few easy cases of sinus infection and the flu then an impromptu invitation to lunch by Molly. She had received the text message about Mike as they discussed where to go to eat. His brain has not turned off since.

Molly didn't have information on what had happened to Mike - just that he had been brought to the morgue. John recalls the bypass surgery that his friend had over a year ago but he still ate the greasiest chips and had smoked the occasional cigar. Mike often groused that 'the old lady is riding my hide to join a gym'. Then he would joke that no one wanted to see him in spandex. John tried to implore he get some exercise, yet it was always met with a hearty laugh and an abrupt change of subject.

"Does the text say anymore about what happened?" John asks.

"I asked that but I haven't heard back. Just that they saw he’d been brought to the morgue and asked if I might be available to assist." Molly shrugs as she looks at her phone.

"Poor Mike." John shakes his head. "I know Sheila tried so hard to get him to be healthier."

"You think cardiac arrest?" Molly asks.

"Or stroke." John looks out the window. He's not sure why he accompanied Molly. It's not as if he has rights at Bart's. At least he can be of comfort to Sheila if she is there.

Molly tosses some money at the taxi driver when he pulls up to the entrance. "Thank you."

John is still pulling the wallet from his back pocket while Molly is already out of the taxi. "I would have paid, Molly."

"It's fine. Let's just go." She gestures hurriedly.

He scrambles to his feet behind her and strides through the heavy white doors. The front desk is bustling with nurses and receptionists. A few patients shuffle down the hall toward appointments. 

A brunette in a white lab coat pauses in front of Molly. "What are you doing here on your day off?"

"I heard Mike Stamford was brought in. I was asked to assist, and he was a friend," Molly explains gravely.

The blonde leans closer. "I heard it was foul play."

"What?" John bristles.

The brunette gives him a curious glance.

Molly shakes her head in disbelief. "Who would want Mike dead?"

The brunette shrugs and continues down the hall. 

"C'mon," John urges and walks briskly to the lift.

"That has to be gossip," Molly is still shaking her head.

The hair on the back of John's neck prickles. Something feels suddenly very wrong. Molly is right - who would want Mike Stamford dead? As far as John knows, Mike isn't a gambler or has ever dabbled with drugs. 

Molly trails behind John as his legs pump harder to get to the morgue. He slows down as he approaches to see a man in suit standing guard outside the double doors.

"Mycroft," he utters under his breath. Why else would a man in a black suit be lingering outside a morgue?

"What?" Molly asks.

John straightens his back and pushes his chest out. He needs to get by the guard with minimal fuss. 

"Follow me, and don't stop," John instructs Molly.

Molly's eyes widen but she does not protest. John stalks up to the doors as if he has every right to be there. He sees the man in the suit eyeing him suspiciously. John nods as if he will pass, then double backs toward the doors. 

"Sir, this room is off limits," the man states.

John doesn't even meet his eye. If that's his best authoritative tone, this man has work ahead of him. John breezes by him as if he hadn't heard the order.

"You can't go in there," the man reaches for his phone.

"Try to stop me," John hisses. 

Using the palms of his hands, he pushes through the double door only to stop five steps in. While he knows the man at the door Mycroft's doing, John didn't expect the most powerful man in government to actually be in the room conferring with Greg. John's eyes drop to Mike's body on the metal table - then his breath catches. He focuses on a familiar head of unruly dark curls. Yet the posture is wrong. Then the head tilts up, and those sea green eyes catch his. John feels like he's been slammed to the ground and all air has been sucked from the room. Something is still off, but he can't tear his gaze from those eyes, the ones he sees at night when he sleeps, the ones he had been afraid that he would forget as more time stretched between that afternoon on the Tarmac and now. But here they are, standing over Mike's body as if it is the most natural thing in the world, as if they have a right.

"What the fuck is this?” His heart races out of control.

Sherlock is frozen, his gloved hands holding an object over Mike's body.

Greg moves forward. “John, I can explain.”

John recognises the blond agent moving in front of Sherlock for protection. Isn’t that the man Mycroft sent when Mary had left? What is he doing here? 

“What is the fuck is going on?” John’s voice trembles. 

Greg places his hands on John’s arms. “Let’s talk elsewhere….”

“But I thought….you told me…..what the fuck?” Tears burn in his eyes. Do not cry Watson, he admonishes himself.

Sherlock dips his head - almost cowering, but their eyes stay locked. 

“John, please…” Greg implores. 

Mycroft takes a hesitant step forward. “John…”

 

Finally, John tears his eyes from Sherlock to scowl at Greg. “You knew. You fucking bastard!”

Both hands ball into tight fists. He rips away from Greg’s grip to reel back and throw a punch, his knuckles clashing against Greg's cheekbone. The contact sends a painful reverberation from his fingers up through his elbow.

“Now John,” Mycroft starts. 

The agent stands ramrod straight directly in front of Sherlock. This man has a personal interest in keeping Sherlock safe. 

John needs to leave before his fists and words fly out of control. 

“How could you..." He aims at no one in particular before he whirls around and slams into the door with such force it crashes against the wall.

He hears Molly calling after him, but he needs fresh air. His stomach rolls violently and he barely makes it through the back door before folding over to vomit. A shaky hand braces him against the building while he coughs and sputters. 

He saw Sherlock in the flesh just moments ago. At least he's sure it was Sherlock. He wasn't shocked that Mycroft would lie - but Greg? And where the bloody hell has Sherlock been all these months? Has he been skulking around London all this time? Did that plane just circle back after he and Mary left the airfield?

"John," Greg pants beside him.

"Don't you fucking talk to me," John growls in a dangerous voice.

"Please, let me explain everything," Greg pleads.

A part of him wants to hear this story. Will it be as good as the last? Is there another villain Sherlock was protecting him from?

"Greg, I suggest you walk away. I cannot be held responsible for my actions. Just fuck off!" John spits and stalks down the receiving dock to the road.

"John, wait!" Greg calls after him.

John shoves his middle finger as high into the air as he can. While he knows he'll have to hear the story at some point, he can't right now.

He's not certain where he is heading, but he needs to get away from Bart's. His legs carry him past the Museum of London where he recalls the case of the elephant in the room. 

Rubbing his eyes, he tries to recall what he had seen. A tall man with dark curls a piercing eyes. A man who resembles his old flatmate, a man who has died twice. A man who he has longed to see every day since he boarded a private jet to 'somewhere'. The man he saw today looked like him, but did not act like Sherlock. He had a stricken look on his sallow face. Something had been off in his posture and movements. John had never heard him speak, but it was most certainly Sherlock. Why else would Mycroft be standing guard with a couple of his minions? But what the fuck was Greg doing there?

John looks up to see he has crossed onto the Barbican terrace. When he had been courting Mary, he had taken her to see her favourite actor in a play at the Barbican. John had fallen asleep during the performance, but Mary had taken him into her bed later that night.

He sits on a bench and stares at the ground. Who was that Sherlock standing over Mike’s body? He had actually cowered when he had seen John. The Sherlock he remembers would have given John a dressing down for bursting in. His Sherlock would never stare at him like a scared child.

Where has he been? Did he really go to Russia? John closes his eyes. He's missing something. Why would Mycroft lie to him?

John thinks of the letter Sherlock had written - it was meant to be a deathbed confession - something Sherlock would never have to answer for. But then why would Sherlock say goodbye but stay in London?

John's legs itch to move. He paces in the courtyard knowing he looks a bit insane.

Has Sherlock been elsewhere in deep cover and brought back for these murders? But why would Sherlock play dead, again?

Now John realises why there has been no memorial or service. There was no body to bury because it is perfectly fine and walking around investigating murders in London.

"Fuck them," John mutters and sets off down the street.

His eyes scan for a pub because he needs many drinks. In his anger, he has not noticed that his phone has been buzzing. He looks down. Of course it's Greg, that sodding traitor. His 'good' friend had been at his side while he buried Mary. John had thought Greg had been acting strange in the last few weeks. Why just the last few weeks?

If John has walked by a pub, he hasn’t noticed. His eyes bore holes into the pavement as he walks the streets of London. Some of the very same streets where he had followed that bloody Belstaff into the night. Why doesn't he want John anymore? Why is he working alongside Greg? One thing is certain, John hates being left behind. 

His feet ache from walking. The shadows from the buildings loom and grow in the afternoon light. At some point, he will need to go home. He pulls out his phone to text Harry. 15 missed calls - all from Greg. None from a private or unknown number. Clearly Sherlock has no intention of trying to explain what he was doing standing over Mike's body - or being alive.

John's heart clenches. Mike, poor sweet Mike. He can't believe that he thought it was something as innocent as a cardiac arrest. Instead it’s more likely that Mike had met a cruel and frightening death judging by the people that hovered over his body. John doesn't know all the details of these murders beyond the fact that the victims are drained completely of their blood. Greg has told him very little about Mary's death, just that he's 'waiting for the final report'. Now John can see what Greg had really been hiding.

Mary, and now Mike, John shakes his head. Slowly, he stops to look at his surroundings. As the sun tucks low in the sky, darkness creeps around the buildings. Both Mike and Mary were killed by the same person. John recalls being called to see a body with Greg months ago. While the female victim had seemed familiar to John, but he could not place where he had seen her. It's all connected, but to who? Sherlock? To himself? Both?

Students push past John as he wanders past City University. A few bump into the aimless doctor while he is deep in thought.

"Fuck," he says, alarming a woman beside him.

The victims are linked to both Sherlock and John. With each murder, the killer inches closer to people who mean something, possibly everything to them. Willa. Harry. Shit shit shit. His hands tremble so much he can barely operate his phone.

"Dr. Watson," a voice calls from the street.

John's left hand curls into a fist ready to defend himself. He looks up to see the blond agent standing beside a sleek black car. 

"What the fuck do you want?" John snarls. 

"Please get in the car," Carter opens the back door.

"Sod off. I'm not going anywhere with you." John's phone buzzes in his hand. He looks down to see a message.

Willa, Clara and I are safe. Wanted you to know xoxo- Harry

He glares at Carter. "Where are they? This has bloody Mycroft all over it."

"I'm here to drive you home." Carter gestures to the backseat.

John gives him a defiant smile. "I'm not getting in a car with you."

Carter takes a breath and smooths the front of his black jacket. "Dr. Watson, you can get in the backseat quietly or I can put you in the boot. Your choice."

John considers this carefully. Carter doesn't have height on his side, but he looks solid. Plus he is likely to be carrying a firearm. John knows Carter would never shoot him, but might shove him into the car roughly. This has to come to a head at some point. Right now John still has a bit of fight in him and he should reserve it for the person that deserves it.

Without a word, John slumps into the backseat. Carter closes the door gently behind him and slides behind the wheel. John watches the younger man in the rearview mirror. Definitely military and recent. Carter still carries himself as if on active duty at all times. He has a strong chin but soft eyes. In another world, John might even say he is attractive. Carter's eyes never leave the road. There is no 'the package has been collected' phone call. Carter doesn't even flick on the car radio, and the silence is driving John insane. He decides that he does have a little vitriol for the agent.

"You've known along that he was alive," John says. “Even when Mycroft sent you to my house after Mary left.”

Carter doesn't even glance in the rearview and his mouth remains a straight line. 

"You were quick to jump in front of him," John says sourly.

"It's my job," Carter answers shortly.

John picks up an edge to the agent's voice. It's clearly more than a job. He feels a bit lightheaded.

"You seem very....invested in it, in him." John bites the inside of his cheek. 

What if there is something going on between Carter and Sherlock? The letter Sherlock had written strongly suggested that he was gayl. Has Sherlock been with this Carter guy all these months? Perhaps met on the mission and fell in love? 

"Yes, I am very invested in my job. And yes, I will place myself between Sherlock and what I find to be a threat." Carter meets John's eyes in the mirror. "He's been through enough."

John's stomach turns violently. Is it the sound of Sherlock's name or the conviction in which Carter speaks? 

"He looked perfectly capable," John mumbles and stares out the window. He still can't say the name. 

Carter takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, but decides to abandon his speech. He grips the steering wheel tighter as he drives into a quaint suburb of London.

"Where is my family?" John asks.

"I assure you they are safe." Carter nods tightly.

Rolling his eyes, John crosses his arms in front of his chest. "I guess I'll ask Mycroft myself then."

He glances up just in time to see Carter's lips curl slightly. Somehow, it makes John feel a little victorious. London has succumbed to the nighttime. The pavement grows lonely as people slip inside their houses to escape the late November chill and have supper. He peers through the curtains and blinds of the houses he passes, and wonders about a quiet life with stories of school and work. In the last year, he can barely remember a moment in his life when things were just nice. Last November, he had moved back into Baker Street to care for Sherlock. That had felt like home. However, he had a pregnant wife and a friend who had insisted he return to her.

The car stops abruptly. John looks for sign of trouble, but he is just in front of his house. He doesn't give Carter the opportunity to open his door as John is already barrelling up to his front door. As expected, the door is unlocked. He tears into the parlour ready to grasp Mycroft by the lapels and just hit him once. 

Mycroft is sat calmly on the sofa with one leg crossed over his knee and a cup of tea in his hand. John's teacup. Two burly men in tight suits stand on either side just waiting for John's rage. On the table in front of him is the matching tea cup steaming with milky tea.

"Good evening, John," he drawls. 

"Where is my family?" John draws to his full height to loom over Mycroft.

"Safe, at my estate." He gestures to the man on his right, who produces a blue folder. "As I'm sure you've concluded, you and Sherlock are the target of a very deranged and dangerous man."

"What's that?" John eyes the folder warily.

"Something you need to see. Please sit." Mycroft opens the folder.

John has no interest in sharing any space with Mycroft, but he knows this is not a choice he can make. 

Before John can speak, Mycroft hands him several pieces of paper. He explains the victims and the clues buried deep inside each. Tea bag. Bank note. Chlorine tablet. 

"What was on this?" John points to the picture of the flash drive. Could it be Mary's past, the one he hadn't wanted to know?

"Scan of birth and death announcements from the London Times," Mycroft answers and flips to the next page. 

John's breath hitches at the sight of Mary. "What was found on her?"

Mycroft hands him the photo of the Tube map with Westminster circled.

"Where was the clue?" His voice quivers.

Mycroft closes his eyes. "Her vagina."

John fights the urge to retch. "Was anyone going to tell me this?"

"It is classified as evidence." Mycroft closes the file. "We don't have the data on the last victim."

"You mean, Mike," john snarls.

Mycroft tilts his head. "Yes, Mike. But I can tell you that a pink Quartz elephant was found embedded in Mike Stamford's anus."

"Christ!" John stands so quickly that the two burly men move in front of Mycroft. Carter appears from nowhere to steady a dizzy John.

"Are you alright, Dr. Watson?" He asks evenly.

"No, I'm not." John shakes his head. It's too much. Or as Sherlock would say, too much data. 

He reels around with eyes blazing. "What have you people done to prevent this? Got your 'best man' on it?"

Cool as ever, Mycroft doesn't even blink at John's rage. "We will get back to that, Dr. Watson. I think you know the real reason I am here."

"I don't care about that." John purses his lips. "I really don't want to hear anything you have say on that matter."

Out of the corner of John's eyes, Carter shifts uncomfortably and chews his lower lips. Interesting, John fumes, emotion. How close is Sherlock to this man?

"You don't have to listen, but you should see." Mycroft motions to Carter who walks over to John with a thick red folder. He holds John’s gaze a beat before he thrusts it at John.

John glances down and his mouth runs dry. Typed on the tab is Holmes, Sherlock and a series of numbers and letters. 

"You already showed me a file," John sniffs defiantly.

Carter opens the file to the first page. "This is the real one."

"Agent Carter," Mycroft warns with no real menace his voice. "Just hand Dr. Watson the folder."

Carter and John stare each other down. John hates that the blonde has a few inches on him. With a roll of his eyes, John takes the file and looks down.

He remembers this picture from the Manila envelope Mycroft had given him all those months ago. He blinks a few times. John sees the charred flesh across the right torso and shoulder, spreading up the neck and over the cheek. The torso photo is the same, and the dark curls matted with mud and blood are still the same. This photo has a face, Sherlock's covered in mud and blood. 

"Amazing what can be accomplished in Photoshop," Mycroft muses.

"Is this also manipulated?" John points the grisly photo.

"You neither see nor observe." Mycroft looks pointedly at John. "What did you see today, John?"

John thinks the most powerful man in the country has gone insane. "Your dead brother. What did you see?"

"Nothing looked different?" Now Mycroft leans forward on the sofa with his eyes blazing. "Sherlock didn't look different?"

John's shoulders drop slightly. He had noted that Sherlock did not seem very Sherlockian. The eye colour had been the same, but they were different somehow. He looks back at the photo. 

"This is Sherlock?" John asks.

"I suggest you seat yourself for the rest of that file," Mycroft grimly says.

John backs himself into the easy chair he usually prefers when watching telly. The folder lays open on his lap. He's not sure he can continue by the first photo. The burns are caked with mud and bits of gravel. It must have been excruciating to have the wounds cleaned. The ends of those luscious curls are burned and frayed. 

"Rebels did find him, and alerted us," Mycroft says quietly. 

John flips the page to more photographs of Sherlock's body. The burns cover most of the right side of this body, from his head across his stomach and over his hip with a few spots along his thigh and calf. 

"We weren't certain if he were going to live. The head trauma from the impact of the bomb, it was unknown how much swelling had taken place. And as you can see, the wounds were very dirty. He suffered infections." Mycroft swallows roughly. 

“When did this happen?” John’s hands shake.

“February. He was in a medically induced coma until late March.It was a miracle he came out of it all. We weren’t certain how much had been affected by the swelling or various infections.” Mycroft watches John carefully. 

Sherlock’s medical chart is thick. It could take all night to read every procedure, skin graft, all the medications he had been on. Some of the notes are written in French. 

“Where was he?”

“In Switzerland and then we moved him home.” Mycroft glances at his watch. 

John cock’s eyebrow. “Am I keeping you from something?”

“No, take your time,” he answers and settles into the sofa uncomfortably. 

“When you say ‘we’ do you mean the government or all the personalities in your head?” John glances up. 

“The family.”

“So, your parents knew.” John nods. “Also why there was no service.” His fist balls up on his leg. “Did he have any decision in this?”

Mycroft’s eyes cloud over as he stares at a spot on the rug. The silence stretches between the two men. “He had some….input.” He takes a deep breath before carrying on. “John, I made a grave mistake. These are words I rarely say but I was wrong.”

John blinks a few times. “Can you repeat that?”

“You have to understand that those weeks were emotionally charged, and I think you know that emotions do not come easy to my brother or to myself. None of the specialists could guarantee that he would heal as he has or that he would have the mental acuity he had before the blast.” Mycroft steeples his fingers under his chin. “I thought it best he start over.”

“What do you mean ‘start over’?” John’s anger returns like a quickly rising tide. 

“Start a new life. I implored Sherlock to move to Australia or Asia. Any country that didn’t know the great Sherlock Holmes.” Mycroft shakes his head.

“So he agreed to play dead?” John leans forward and the file slips off his lap. Photos and medical charts scatter on the rug. 

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “He might have been impaired during our discussion.”

John stops gathering the papers to look up. “Impaired? You drugged your addict brother?”

Mycroft leans down to meet the doctor’s eye. “Do you know how painful third degree burns over 35% of your body are? I don’t suppose you do. If he had not been on medication, he would have been writhing in pain.”

John knows the files and photographs are out of order, but he continues to flick through them. He sees the bandages, sometimes damp from weeping wounds. In most of the pictures, Sherlock’s eyes are closed. Most likely while he was still in a coma. When John sees the first photo of a conscious Sherlock, his eyes burn. It looks as though Sherlock is a corpse. The undamaged skin is sallow and sick. His eyes are lifeless and fix on nothing - as if nothing matters. 

“But he agreed,” John presses again. He is not sure why he needs to have Sherlock be complicit in the act of dying again, but he wants to be clear. 

“After some time, he did. He didn’t want to be a burden on anyone. He hated the pity from the hospital staff. He knew that he could not return to London and be the same Sherlock Holmes you worshipped,” Mycroft says. 

“Now hold on. This is not my fault. And I do not worship Sherlock Holmes….” John starts. 

“But you love him,” Mycroft interrupts. “Or you did.” 

John’s mouth snaps shut. 

Mycroft stands.”Think about it, John. Hiding in plain sight is what Sherlock does. He cannot do that as he is. People will notice him in a way he is not used to. Before he could slip in anywhere and seem normal until he opened that large mouth of his.”

John shakes his head with a huff. “People noticed him, that is where he was wrong. He just didn’t see them take notice of him.”

Mycroft smiles. “Oh, his vanity? Yes, he could use those curls and cheekbones to get what he needed or desired. He cannot do that now.”

John’s heart sinks like a stone in a pond. Mycroft is right - Sherlock lives for the chase and now he cannot run undetected. 

Mycroft moves the curtain to look to the empty street below. “There is also the matter of government policy.”

“What’s that?”

“Sherlock was sent on a mission sponsored by the government - a very small department of the government. Most wanted to see him serve like the criminal they think he is. We have discussed what that would do to Sherlock and to the prison system itself.” Mycroft moves to sofa again. “Some enemies felt a small bit of satisfaction that we sent Sherlock to certain death. He got what he deserved, they said. Those people think he is still away. When they find out he is in London, they will want to see justice done.”

John holds up a photo of Sherlock’s charred skin. “This isn’t justice?”

Mycroft’s lips twitch. “These are not nice or reasonable people.”

"What were you going to do long term? You have some people believing that he's dead, some thinking he's in Russia. How long were you going to keep up the ruse?" John asks incredulously. He always took Mycroft for a rational and intelligent man, but none of this makes sense.

"I had hoped Sherlock would move to Australia. He refused to leave England." Mycroft picks up the blue folder. "And London needs Sherlock right now."

"According to this, we've brought this monster on." John jabs his finger at the file.

"You've just attracted unsavoury attention. The monster was always there."

John takes a moment to look over every record in Sherlock's file. He frowns when he looks at the date of a toxicology report.

"This is just a few weeks ago." John holds up the paper. "Did he overdose?"

Mycroft settles in for the second part of their conversation. "Not as such, but he did inject a mixture of prescription pills into his system."

"Has he been using again?" John asks.

Mycroft shakes his head. "Just that evening."

"What was significant about that night?" John's eyes search the report.

"Does the date look familiar to you?"

Mycroft's baiting grates on John's last unfrayed nerve. His eyes widen. "It's the night Mary was discovered."

"Yes John," Mycroft rests his chin against his closed fist. 

"Why would it affect him so much?" John frowns. "I know he liked Mary, but not enough for that. If he was upset for me..."

Mycroft sighs heavily. "John, how many men with recent burns are on the internet?"

"I don't understand," John shakes his head.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "You should put that on a shirt."

Gritting his teeth, John clenches his teeth. "If you could stop being so fucking obtuse..."

Mycroft leans his elbows on his knees. "Sherlock had been chatting with a man on the internet lately. Someone he had grown close to after he felt he had lost everything. His best friend. His friends."

The world tilts for John. His hands grab the arms of his chair to prevent falling over.

"A man whose wife had just been discovered murdered." Mycroft leads.

John gags on his own saliva. He had not thought about David since this morning. He had gotten busy with work and Molly. Then of course Mike Stamford and.....Sherlock. 

"I don't know what you're trying to tell me." John closes his eyes. No. This is not possible. But he's never seen a proper photograph of David. "He's a lawyer."

"And you're a nurse, Mike." 

John lunges for Mycroft but is stopped by a wall of muscle and wool. 

Mycroft scurries back to the window to put some distance between himself and a scrabbling John Watson.

"I know, John," murmurs Carter. His grip is strong but not forceful. "try to stay calm."

John keeps pushing against Carter who applies slightly more pressure to the agitated man's bicep.

"Sit John. It's okay," Carter says gently.

Exhaustion takes John over and he folds back into the chair. "It's not.....possible."

"The odds are astronomical, yes." Mycroft nods cautiously.

"How could he find me?" John's head reels. He had skewed the truth to keep himself anonymous and guarded.

Mycroft perches on the farthest side of the sofa. "He didn't, John." Suddenly he is as weary as John. All the deception and lies have beaten him down. "That night was traumatic for everyone." He recalls having to tell Greg about Sherlock. Perhaps he will leave that detail out. "Sherlock was a little shaken after the autopsy. I think the seed that these murders might be connected to him had begun to bloom. I went by where he was staying and found him unconscious."

Carter raises an eyebrow in Mycroft's direction but he says nothing.

"After some investigation, I realised what had upset him. The man he knew as Mike, a man about to leave his wife, was you. It was...too much for him."

John runs his fingers through his hair and takes a few deep breaths. This is not possible. "He had to know beforehand."

"You told him you had a son and that you were a nurse. Maybe Sherlock before the blast would have seen through the charade, but he has changed. He's isolated and lonely." Mycroft scrubs a hand over his face. "Years ago, he would have been content to be locked away with no contact."

John stands abruptly. Carter takes a step towards him, but John waves him off. He doesn't approach Mycroft but paces instead.

"So, what you are telling me is Sherlock was severely burned in a blast on a mission you sent him on. He comes back to England where you convince him to play dead because no one will accept him now. While he's locked away, he finds comfort on a grief chat site. Well until some crazed murdered decided to killing people connected to Sherlock and me." He rounds on Mycroft who despite his stature looks rather small on his sofa.

"Detective Lestrade had requested help in this case. He knew that I had resources beyond his control. He didn't know that I was passing evidence to Sherlock, Until the night Mary was found, he had no idea." Mycroft prudently chooses his words.

"But Greg knew at Mary's service and said nothing." John points out.

"He was not to say anything." Mycroft's voice drops.

"What about Sherlock or David...we kept on chatting after he knew who I was." John lets out a joyless chuckle. "Now I know why he was being so understanding and giving me space before we met."

"John, bringing Sherlock back from Russia will not be as easy as the last time," Mycroft says.

"Yes, that was so bloody easy for him to waltz into a restaurant where I was trying to propose and just suddenly be there. That was incredibly simple. Were you planning to have him pop out of a cake?" John rages.

“Nothing about the last year has been simple, has it Dr. Watson?” Mycroft hisses. “They sent him to die. You can argue that I did too, but I had no choice. When I saw him, he was clinging to life - and what kind of life could he have. He was burnt, disfigured. He had suffered swelling in his brain. I made a rash decision to spare what life he had left. If some of colleagues had known he was alive, they would patch him up and sent him back there.” Mycroft grabs a more recent photo of Sherlock’s scarred skin. “Do you know how long he would last there like this? So yes, I kept him hidden from people who loved him and those who would destroy him to get to me!”

John is shocked by Mycroft’s passion. He watches the older man run a shaky hand through his hair and close his eyes. Taking a deep breath, Mycroft pulls a purple handkerchief from his jacket and pats the sweat from his upper lip. Never has John seen Mycroft lose control like that. But it helps to diffuse his anger for the time being. Too much has happened, and he just wants to see Willa - the one pure and truly good being in his life. 

“Now Dr. Watson, have I answered all your queries?” his voice falters a bit.

“Oh I haven’t gotten started, but I want to see Willa and Harry. Are you bringing them back?” John decides that the Sherlock issue can wait for now.

“No,” Mycroft stands. “I am bringing you to them. It is very likely that Mary disappeared the night she left the house. My surveillance in this particular area is not especially enlightening. We believe that it is a single person working alone, but there is too much we don’t know. Priority number one is that you and Willa remain safe. There is no place safer than my estate.”

“You want me to move in with you?” John coughs.

“Oh John, nothing that domestic. You will have an entire wing to yourself.” Mycroft grins silkily. 

“I don’t have a choice do I?” John shrugs helplessly. 

“Not really.” 

“I could go away. Send me to a safe house up north." The thought of living under the same roof as any of the Holmes terrifies John.

"He needs you. He cannot solve this without you. As it is, he's been working blind with only the scraps I can give him. I didn't want to force him out into the light, but it is necessary to stop this killer - and we only have a chance if you work together. Both our families are in grave danger." Mycroft places a careful hand on John's shoulder. 

"You're very brave to be touching me, Mycroft." John warns.

Raising his eyebrows, Mycroft steps back and slips his hands into his pockets. 

"He'll be there, won't he?" John purses his lips.

"He does live there. I would move him but I can't guarantee his safety." Mycroft sniffs. "You know I can't take that risk. He's in the east wing and will not bother you."

"But you want us to work together?" John folds his arms in front of his chest.

"We can work out an arrangement that is beneficial to both of you." Mycroft glances at his gold watch again.

"Does he know you're here?"

Mycroft shifts uncomfortably. "He was unconscious when I left him."

"Unconscious?" John asks.

"The excitement was too much for Sherlock." Mycroft avoids eye contact. "We should.."

"For Sherlock?" John cocks his head.

The look Mycroft gives John sends a chill down his spine. "He's not the same man you remember. It would be good for you to ruminate on that fact. Carter will assist you. I must go home and prepare my brother for your arrival."

Defeated, John takes a last look around his flat. Slowly he had tried to erase Mary from this place and now he is taking Willa from her home to live in a castle by the sound of it. East wing. West wing. With Sherlock, a man until a few hours ago had been dead. A man John has courted on line with white lies. The room spins and John's body sways. Two steady hands grab his arms and prevent him from slumping to the floor.

"Are you alright Dr. Watson?" Carter peers into his flushed face. 

"I don't know..." John mumbles.

Carter eases John back into his chair. "Can I get you something to drink? Tea or water?"

John runs his fingers through sweat soaked hair. He is certain that he's having a panic attack. 

"Water," he croaks.

Carter hurries to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. John feels he needs more than water to prepare him to share a house, even a large one with Sherlock - and David. 

"Mycroft!" John's head shoots up. "Do me one favour."

Mycroft blanches momentarily, before composing himself and raises his chin. "And that is?"

"I want to be the one to tell him I know he's David," John says.

Mycroft begins to protest.

John collects his energy and walks to the door where Mycroft is eager to make a hasty exit.

"You've been in middle of this for too long. This is between Sherlock and me. Your involvement ends now." John's eyes blaze into Mycroft.

With a slight nod of his head, Mycroft acquiesced. "Fine. Be careful, Dr. Watson."

Those words ring in the air as Mycroft slips into the night. John lingers in the door to see a neighbours Christmas lights twinkle in their window. The chilly air is cut with the comforting smell of a fire nearby. In the course of one month, John's entire world has up ended and changed. 

"We should get moving, sir," Carter suggests quietly behind him.

"Yes," John agrees. 

He regards the blond agent for a moment. Perhaps he has misread Carter's affection for Sherlock. Straightening his posture to military form, he offers his hand.

"Please call me John."


	66. Chapter 66

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he swims through the levels of unconsciousness, Sherlock knows that his sleep has not been natural one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry about the delay. I had hoped this chapter would take just one week as the start went to paper easily. Unfortunately, this is going to longer than I hoped. I should have known when the first part was already 5K words. So, it's a slightly smaller chapter showing how the first day of cohabitation is going. The next chapter might skip around a bit as they move around one another in this vast house. Neither is ready to confront the other, but we all know they have to soon. The clock is ticking from one dead to the next. The next victim could already have been chosen.....
> 
> Again, thanks so much to all the extra sets of eyes. Thank you for listening to my ideas, reading my downloads and cleaning up my mess. callie4180, 221bjen and Burning_up_the_sun are wonderful writers who take time away from their works to look at mine. Thank you ladies! And my artist/editor fruitbat who gave us a visual of what a scarred Sherlock could look like. Thank you all for your support, encouragement and counsel.
> 
> And of course to the readers. You really make this happen. It's lovely to know that I'm not writing into the void and it touches me that you've taken these characters into your heart. Thank you for your bookmarks, lively discussions and taking time to read this ridiculous bit of fiction.

As he swims through the levels of unconsciousness, Sherlock knows that his sleep has not been a natural one. His limbs are heavy and his head is fuzzy. He's no longer laid out on the tile floor of the morgue. When he moves his head, a sharp pain ripples from his forehead. Cracking one eye open, he's relieved to find his bedroom bathed in the soft light of lamps. Darkness outside - how long has he been out?

A groan escapes from his mouth when he tries to lift his head.

Greg rushes over. "Easy, you have a mild concussion.”

Sherlock's eyes close in protest to company. "What are you doing here? And if I was concussed, why was I sedated? Shoddy medical care."

"Mycroft thought it would be easier to move you. He didn't want you to wake in the morgue so he had Dr. Ian give it to you." Greg looms over the bed.

"Bet the good doctor rather enjoyed that," Sherlock hisses, wincing as he frowns. "Mycroft always knows best."

Greg notices his grimace. "I was told to give you these when you woke."

Sherlock feels extra weight on the bed. He cracks an eye to see Greg seated with one leg curled under him with two paracetamol in his hand. 

"For your head. You hit it pretty hard." Greg grabs a bottle of water from the bedside table. 

Sherlock would roll his eyes, but it's too painful. "Yes, well being concussed and all."

He is grateful for the water. Whatever drug Dr. Ian had administered has left him with awful cotton mouth. Reaching to touch the plaster on his head, he feels the lump. 

"Where is he?" Sherlock asks suddenly.

"Your brother?" Greg asks.

Sherlock tries to swallow but his mouth is too dry. "John..."

"He's safe. Mycroft saw to it." Greg stands.

"Where is my brother?" Knowing Mycroft's tendency to fix everything and everyone, an uneasy feeling churns in Sherlock's stomach.

Greg glances at his watch. "He should be in soon. How are you?"

"I'm groggy and annoyed," Sherlock growls.

"You know about...." Greg shifts his weight.

"Funny Lestrade, I do not recall the letters MD after your name." With great effort, Sherlock pulls himself into a seated position. 

"Look, I'm just trying to be a friend, you insufferable arse," the Inspector grumbles.

"Did I ever ask you to be my friend?" Gingerly, Sherlock shakes his head. "This was always going to happen. Despite my brother's grandiose plans to bring me back from the dead, John was always going to find out I wasn't 'just' discovered alive. This entire exercise was futile."

"This isn't your fault," Greg says quietly.

"I know that!" Sherlock snaps and he winces in pain. Why must Greg continue to talk?

Greg rushes to the en suite bathroom to run a flannel under cold water. He wrings out the excess water and brings it to Sherlock who rests against the headboard.

"I'm sorry," he mutters as he lays it on Sherlock's forehead. "Are you hungry? Want tea?"

Sherlock closes his eyes. Even the soft light hurts right now. 

"How long was I unconscious?" He asks.

"About..."

"Four and a half hours," Mycroft announces.

Sherlock's eyes pop open then narrow. "Some would call you a rubbish big brother...you know with drugging your addict baby brother."

"I was assured the sedative was non habit forming." Mycroft closes the bedroom door behind him.

"An addict can overindulge in just about anything. You need to stop drugging me," Sherlock hisses through his teeth.

"You had a bit of a shock, Sherlock. I wanted you to wake some place comfortable and not beside a dead body." Mycroft slips his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

"Did Dr. Ian finish the autopsy?" Sherlock pulls the flannel from his forehead.

"No, I know you want to do that. We can try again tomorrow. By then the tests you ordered will be ready." He watches his brother carefully. 

With a grimace, Sherlock slides off the bed. His head throbs and the room spins a little. Greg rushes over to steady him.

"Maybe you should sit," he suggests.

"Sit?" Sherlock huffs out a humourless laugh. "I have too much to do. Now that I am certain these are linked to me, I can't sit around. I need the pictures of Mike Stamford and all the data we did collect." He shakes his head. "I never saw the site where the body was found."

"It's still secure for you to visit tomorrow," Greg says.

"Tomorrow?" Sherlock whirls around too fast and his head spins. "Do you not understand that your lives are in danger? Anyone connected to me, past and present, is a target!"

Mycroft steps closer. "We know but you have a concussion and will not be leaving the house until tomorrow morning. If you do not collect yourself, I will call Dr. Ian."

Sherlock ignores his older brother completely. "Greg, you know how important it is that I see the site now. If it rains, all that evidence is gone. I can't trust your people to not contaminate it."

"Now Sherlock...." Greg starts.

A distant wail stills the room. Though it hurts, Sherlock frowns. 

"Is that a cat?" He cocks his head.

After a few more cries, Sherlock's mouth falls open. Definitely not a cat.

"W-what is that?" Sherlock stares in horror at Mycroft, who drops his gaze to an invisible thread on the arm of his jacket.

"That's the other reason I came in." Mycroft straightens himself. "I am certain you will agree that protecting John Watson and his daughter is the first priority."

"What have you done?" Sherlock's voice drops to a mere rumble.

Mycroft doesn't even blink. "I have invited John and his family to stay where it is safe."

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. "Invited?"

Mycroft rolls his shoulders casually. "Insisted. You'll see this is best."

Without care for his pounding head, Sherlock erupts, "You need to stop playing God. I know you consider yourself above all deities but you've gone too far this time."

Mycroft masks a look of surprise. "I thought you would be grateful that I placed his safety first."

Sherlock falters for a moment. Of course that is the most important thing right now. "But here? And he agreed?"

"I impressed the importance of the two of you working together. It's the only way we can bring this to an end," Mycroft says.

Sherlock covers his forehead with his hand. "Working together? You want him to work with a man who was dead to him not more than six hours ago?"

Mycroft's smile is thin and tentative. "Why not? You've done it before."

Greg steps to the centre of the room. "Myc, that took time..."

"And John being placed in a bonfire. What do you have planned to coerce him back into being my friend?" Sherlock rages.

"He's not here to be your friend, Sherlock. He's here to save lives because that's what he does. You said it yourself." Mycroft smooths back his ruffled hair. "If you find your way back to each other, then so be it."

Sherlock hates that Mycroft is absolutely right. Many things have been missing while investigating the case - most importantly John. 

"How are we going to work together? You saw his face when he saw me. It was absolute horror." Sherlock's shoulders slump.

"It not what you think. He was in shock, yes. I would not say he was horrified by you," Mycroft says evenly.

"I have to somehow explain this." Sherlock gestures to the right side of his face. 

"I showed him your file, the real one."

Sherlock's shoulders pull tight again as he whips his head around. "You did what?!"

 

In the west wing of the grand estate, John bounces Willa in his arms. She's unsure of her surroundings and whimpers softly with her head tucked under her father's chin. A man's deep bellow echoes up the stairs and down the hall causing Willa to still. Blinking, she picks her head up and looks up at John.

"That, my love, would be your namesake," he says gently. He bites his bottom lip. "I never thought you'd get to meet him."

"Da." Willa pats John's cheek.

"Yes, my love." He cuddles her closer and looks at his new bedroom.

The shouting continues down the hall, but John can't make out most of what's being said. It appears that Mycroft has told Sherlock about their new house guests.

Carter shuffles through the door with two large suitcases.

"You didn't have to do that. I was going to get them after I put Willa down," John protests.

"It's fine sir." He pauses. "John."

John nods approvingly. As Carter hefts the suitcases on John's king sized bed, a crash from the floor below reverberates through both wings.

"If you'll excuse me, I better see to that." With a nod, Carter briskly leaves the room. 

"What do you think, little girl?" John asks. "No worse than the Ritchies next door. And he'll go days without talking. It'll be quiet then..." John stares far off at nothing in particular. "If he still does that."

"Here we are," Harry returns with a warm bottle of formula.

"Thank you." John smiles weakly.

Harry crosses to an overstuffed rocker. "Here, this looks perfect."

John eases himself in and the chair practically embraces him. He cradles Willa into the crook of his arm, and she guides the bottle to her mouth. Within seconds, her blue eyes close while she sucks.

"This is quite the place." Harry looks around the room. "Bigger than your entire flat."

"I'm sorry you're mixed up in this," John murmurs.

Harry plops down on the sofa opposite him. "I'll admit that I could have done without the men in black coming to the house. Was like a scene from a movie." Her eyes turn to the fire crackling in the hearth. "This is a nice safe house. You know we have one too."

"Did Mycroft tell you how long you'd be here?" John asks.

"We leave tomorrow. We're heading to Germany for a second honeymoon courtesy of the government. Clara has cleared her schedule. It will be fine." She smiles gently.

He nuzzles a drowsy Willa. "We can't be too careful. You're a target here and maybe at home."

"It's just one guy, right?" She asks.

"I don't know. Most likely one. But he's dangerous and looking for attention." John shakes his head feeling exhausted all of a sudden.

"Yours or Sherlock's?" Harry raises an eyebrow.

"Don't know. Probably Sherlock's." It feels surreal to say his name in the present tense. Until today, Sherlock had been a warm memory John would cling to during dark times.

"Have you talked to him?" Harry pulls her knees up to her chin.

John's eyes sting with tears he doesn't want to shed. "No, I can't. Everything is still too raw."

"You'll have to work it out, you know that," Harry says.

"Yes, but until I'm ready, Mycroft is right." He looks around his large room the size of the downstairs of his flat. "This house is big enough for both of us."

A door slams, and Sherlock's shouts echo into the night.

"At least I hope it is," John sighs. He wonders if Mycroft has kept his promise about Mike and David. Not that John has any clue how he will address that with Sherlock when the time comes.

After a final door slam, the house is still. The only sounds in John's room are the pops from the fire and his daughter's gentle snore. 

"Is it safe here? What if he finds out you're here?" Harry gnaws on her lower lip.

"There's an iron gate and countless cameras and agents. I'm sure this guy is clever, he's managed to kill several people without leaving any useful clues but to get through Mycroft's security is impossible." John gazes at Willa. Her lips twitch as a contented sigh escapes to melt John's heart. 

"Do you want me to put her down?" Harry whispers.

"No, her room is right through here."

"Did you see it?" Harry asks. "He spared no expense. New crib, changing table. An entire stuffed animal kingdom. And all in a few hours."

John quirks a smile. "It's Mycroft. He's a man that can get things done. Creating a nursery out of thin air is easy for him."

"I'm going to turn in and take advantage of that huge bed." Harry grins.

John wrinkles his nose. "I do not need to know that."

With a giggle, Harry winks. "We'll be quiet." She drops a kiss to Willa's head then ruffles John's hair. "Good night."

"Harry," he calls after her. "Thank you for everything."

"John, you took care of me for years. It's nice to return the favour." And Harry is gone.

John stands with a sleeping Willa and walks to the door that joins his room with hers. Earlier, he had only glanced inside when Carter had shown him around. John still hasn't seen the rest of the mansion. Tomorrow, he will need to find the kitchen. 

Willa's room is triple the size of her room at home. In short order, Mycroft has managed a cherry crib with matching changing table and dresser. By the tall window, a rocker overlooks the vast grounds. In the corner is the stuffed animal kingdom Harry had mentioned. Mycroft has outdone himself in making John and Willa feel welcomed. It's touching and unnerving at the same time. 

John walks to the crib and can't help but smile at the matching stars and moons sheets and blanket. Already waiting for her is Willa's favourite stuffed penguin. Yes, Mycroft thought of everything. Carefully, he pulls the blanket to her chin and brushes the hair from her forehead. Keeping her safe is his one priority now. 

John leaves the door between their rooms opened. While Mycroft could have an army guarding them, John needs to hear every sigh or whimper. He places his hands on his hips and debates whether he has the energy to unpack. If he were home, he would have poured a glass of something stiff and watched the evening news. Glancing at the separate sitting room with the fire, he considers at least watching some telly. He can unpack tomorrow.

"Uh, John," Greg peeks his head inside.

"What are you doing here?" John clenches his fists.

Greg produces two tumblers and a bottle of scotch. "Peace offering. I realise you might not want my company."

"Why are you in this house?" John asks again.

Without invitation, Greg steps inside the room. "I was keeping an eye on Sherlock."

"Is he alright?" John hates that he actually cares.

"When he saw you, he lost consciousness for a bit. Mycroft thought it best to have him moved home and monitored," Greg says.

"How long was he out? He should be in a hospital if he's been unconscious for hours." John's hands relax as he checks his watch.

"Dr. Ian gave him something to sleep."

John raises his eyebrows. "Under Mycroft's instruction, I suspect?"

Greg nods slowly.

"Christ, will he ever stop controlling everything?" John shakes his head incredulously. "Does HE know I'm here?"

"Sherlock? You heard the shouting, what do you think?" Greg asks.

John rubs the back of his neck. "He doesn't want me here, does he?"

A somber look passes over Greg's face. "He doesn't want you troubled by him. Whatever you must think, your well being has always been first."

John feels the hairs prickle across his scalp. "Had many heart to hearts, have you?"

"I told you, I didn't know until the night we found Mary. I wanted them to tell you, but Mycroft said there was more behind the scenes he needed to take care of first," Greg implores. 

John's eyes narrow. "Always Mycroft. What does he have on you that you just fall in line?"

Greg's mouth falls open and a pink tinge stains his cheeks. "I-I was thinking of Sherlock. He's been through a lot a-and he was afraid."

"Sherlock afraid?" John scoffs.

"You'll find out for yourself." Greg places the glasses and the scotch bottle on the table in John's sitting room.

John walks to the door and gestures to Greg that it's time to leave. "I don't plan on that. It's my goal to never actually have a conversation with him. I'm only here for Willa and my safety, and to catch that bastard."

"You need to work with him to do that," Greg says.

"There are ways." John thinks of the chat site. "You can get on without contact."

"I suppose you can. He certainly has. Not sure how well though." Greg muses thoughtfully.

"If this madman had not terrorised London, where would he be?" John stares into the fire.

"Who Sherlock? I don't know. Neither of them would be here. I think Mycroft would have kept him hidden away." Greg shrugs.

John rubs his face with his hands. "I'm knackered and need to rest, so please..."

"Right, of course." Greg pauses in the doorway. "Um, good night."

"Hmm." Is all John can muster as he closes the door behind the Inspector.

John shuffles to the entryway of his personal sitting room to eye the bottle of brown liquor. Maybe it would help tonight. He pours himself three fingers and walks into the bedroom to slide the luggage to the other side of the enormous bed and kick off his shoes. Placing a tentative hand on the bed - nice firm mattress. If he falls asleep, at least his back won’t ache in the morning.

No matter how hard John tries, his thoughts return to Sherlock. What has his life been like all these months being squirrelled away? Yes, Sherlock had always preferred solitude but in his time with John, he had grown accustomed to company.

John swings his legs onto the bed and takes a large gulp of scotch, welcoming the burning in his throat. He ruminates on a Sherlock who is locked away while making plans for a new life with a different man. Had he hoped that Mike would move away with him? 

After another large sip, John fishes his phone from his pocket. His thumb hovers over the chat application for a moment before swiping on saved conversations. Reading their chats now, John can hear Sherlock's voice in his mind. But nothing screams 'this is Sherlock' as he reads David's words. And yet, nothing about Mike would have led Sherlock to believe anything different.

John's eyes burn from exhaustion. It's late and Willa will be stirring in a few hours. With a heavy sigh, John tosses his phone on the bedside table. Tipping the glass back, he finishes the scotch in one swallow. 

It's been a year since he's slept under the same roof as Sherlock Holmes.

* * * * * * * *

 

John rolls over when he hears a woman's voice in the next room. It takes him a moment to realise that he's not in his flat but an enormous estate. His room is still dark, but the sun cuts slivers of light through the cracks in the thick drapes. His mouth is like sandpaper. It dawns on him that he has not eaten since breakfast yesterday. He hears the woman's voice again. Willa. He staggers to his feet, a little unsteady from low blood sugar. Blinking a few times, he pushes through the door to Willa's room. 

Dressed in her favourite yellow romper, Willa furiously shakes a stuffed duck while she laughs. A matronly woman sits on the floor beside her with a stuffed elephant in her hand. 

"Dr. Watson, I hope we didn't wake you." She smiles kindly.

"No, I mean yes but it's fine," he says. "I'm sorry, who are you?"

"I'm Greta the cook and housekeeper. Well, more just a cook here. I also kept house at the Cambridge residence. Here, Mr. Holmes has others to clean because it's so big." She scrambles to her feet and extends a hand to John. 

"Cambridge residence?" John inquiries.

"Yes, until recently I was there with the younger Mr. Holmes. We were moved here a few weeks ago." She looks down at Willa. "She's beautiful and so smart."

John rubs his eyes. "Yes, thank you, she is. You know, both smart and beautiful. Was she crying?"

"Mr. Holmes gave me the baby monitor this morning. He suggested that you needed your rest." She looks at Willa. "We've already had a bottle and some oatmeal. When does she nap in the morning?"

"Uh, I guess around ten." He blinks at his watch. "What time is it?"

"Half nine. I can take her downstairs while you clean up. Does a fry up sound good?" She struggles to stand.

"Oh here," John rushes to offer his hand.

"Thank you dear. I've a knee." She winces. "Willa, would you like to come with Greta?"

Willa claps her hands and reaches up to the stocky woman. 

"She likes you." John marvels.

"I'm an excellent auntie." She scoops the little girl from the floor. "We'll be making your breakfast. Take your time."

Willa waves to her father. "Da!"

After a steaming shower, John does feel a bit better. Dressed in a clean pair of jeans and green jumper, he follows the smell of eggs and bacon. As he shuffles down the stairs, he pauses on the second story landing to look at the opposite hallway. Several doors line both sides. John can't help wondering which door is Sherlock's. Is the genius sleeping? Has he been up all night torturing himself? John is not ready to see him. Mycroft had been right that the house is big enough for absolute avoidance.

 

Hastily, John rushes down the last flight of stairs. His eyes flick to the study as he passes. His breath catches when he sees Sherlock's evidence wall. It's just like Baker Street, perhaps slightly more linear than the ones John remembers. He can't help but look; he is supposed to be assisting after all. 

All the victims are arranged in order with pictures and notes forming an orderly column underneath. Present is the red piece of yarn connecting the victims in a seemingly haphazard manner, creating a crimson spider web over all the papers.

A sense of relief washes over John. No matter what has happened to Sherlock, some habits still remain very much intact, and annoying as ever. He can't imagine that Mycroft was too pleased that Sherlock had defaced his study wall with pushpins and cello. Deep down that gives John a sense of satisfaction. 

Willa's laugh brings John out of his reverie. Ah yes, breakfast. For as stressful as the last twenty-four hours have been, he is absolutely starving. He eyes a pad of Post-It notes on the desk and swipes them. While he is not ready for an actual face to face with Sherlock, there is work to do. Perhaps Sherlock will prefer to work like this.

The kitchen is the brightest room in the estate. Most of the wood is dark and heavy while the cupboards are a light oak and the stone counter tops are grey flecked with blues, silvers and pinks. Of course there is a chair for Willa, gleaming straight out of the box. For a moment, John is touched by all the preparations that have been made for their stay. 

Greta's fry-up is one of the best John has ever had. He tucks into it like he hasn't eaten in days which is not far from the truth. Willa giggles from her chair and tries to to stuff Cheerios in her mouth. John learns that Greta has been employed by Mycroft for over ten years after her husband died. She speaks fondly of her employer. Maybe the Iceman is not as cold hearted as he likes to pretend to be. 

After breakfast, John says goodbye to Harry and Clara. One of Mycroft's agents will drive them home to pack, then take them to airport for their holiday. As the car pulls away, the heaviness in John's chest returns like a cinder block. With Harry and Clara here, he had allies. Now he and his daughter are in a massive house with two men who are basically strangers to them. 

While Willa is down for her morning nap, John pauses at the bottom of the stairs and listens for any movement on the floor above. Is Sherlock sleeping? Sulking? Thinking? John knows they will have to talk, if nothing else, about the case. They need to catch the bastard before he kills anyone else. By John's calculations, the victims are only growing closer to Sherlock and himself. Could they be next on the list? 

John forces himself to go into the study and contemplate Sherlock's wall. Holding the pad of Post-Its, he grabs a fancy fountain pen from the large desk. This pen is probably worth more that the entire contents of his suitcases which he still needs to unpack. That can be put off till later. At some point, Sherlock will emerge from his room and that's the perfect time for John to make himself scarce.

Not ready to tackle the wall, he looks around the study. Old leather bound books line the floor to ceiling shelves on both sides of a stone fireplace. How many fireplaces does this house have, John wonders. The estate must predate central heating. In front of the fireplace sits two dark green leather chairs. Mycroft loves his reading chairs. Of course there is a small bar with crystal decanters holding various expensive liquors. The study is rather comfortable yet erudite - without the presence of Sherlock's evidence wall. 

"Might as well get to work," John mutters to no one.


	67. Chapter 67

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's door creaks open. He hasn't heard the baby for awhile. What time do babies go to bed, Sherlock wonders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it again. I broke up a chapter because it was getting a bit long. I hope you don't mind. I think it still covers a lot of ground in getting our boys back together. 
> 
> I want to thank my incredible betas and brainstormers. I used to think writing was a solitary activity, but have found great joy in collaboration. Many thanks to my fellow writers Burning_Up_a_Sun, callie4180 and 221BJen for their incredible counsel, support and editing skills. All three have excellent works under the Fall Fusion TV tag that you should check out. 
> 
> Thank you to my readers. Without you, this exists in a vacuum. You raise through provoking questions and help keep me on point. 
> 
> Finally, this is a heavy story and will slowly become passionate and loving. I took part of a challenge recently that I wrote nothing but fluff, love and sex. If you need a break from all this heaviness, you can read about John and Sherlock making love on Christmas Eve at John's childhood home. It was quick and silly - but a nice break from the Angst train I've riding. 
> 
> [Rainbow Connection](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5089916)

Sherlock's door creaks open. He hasn't heard the baby for awhile. What time do babies go to bed, Sherlock wonders. His watch reads nearly eleven o'clock at night. He's wasted a whole day by hiding in his room. But every time he has managed to steel himself to slip to the study, he had heard John or Willa. He knows this is ridiculous and that he can't go on like this, but he still feels raw from yesterday. In twenty-four hours, his life has completely tilted upside down. He has gone from mourning what could never be with Mike to living with John. It had been so familiar hearing his voice float along the hallway. Sherlock could almost reach out and touch his warm tone.

John doesn't want that. If he and his family were not the target of a deranged killer, he would never want any part of Sherlock. And why would he? Sherlock has lied again; he's damaged inside and out, and the list goes on.

Holding his breath, Sherlock takes a tentative step outside his room. On the floor above him, he hears a television. John must be up there as usually only Greta watches telly, and her quarters are on the first floor near the kitchen. It's possible that John could still come downstairs, but Sherlock cannot afford to lose anymore time. He's already missed out on visiting the scene where the body had been found. It's only a matter of days before the next victim is hunted and kidnapped.

Sherlock's maroon dressing gown flows behind him like a cape as he rushes down the stairs. He skids to a stop when he sees Mycroft behind the desk.

"Brother, nice of you to emerge from your tomb." Mycroft does not look up from his reading.

"There are hundreds of rooms in this castle. Can't you be in one of those?" Sherlock flounces over to the evidence wall.

"I told you, Sherlock, I use this room." Mycroft glances up.

"Don't you have Greggy waiting for you in your bed?" Sherlock goads.

"Must you be so vulgar?" He gestures to the wall. "Have a look. Your blogger has left you something."

Annoyed, Sherlock whirls to look behind him. With a deep set frown, he sees his pristine wall mottled with bright yellow notes.

"This is John's work?" It feels odd to be saying that name so casually.

"He was in here most of the afternoon. At least until the child needed dinner," Mycroft says.

"The child has a name. Willa." Sherlock's annoyance blooms.

"Yes, Willa. Interesting name choice," Mycroft sniffs.

"Why did you lie?"

Mycroft returns to the documents on his desk. "Lie?"

"About the name. You told me it was Reilly or something." Sherlock moves closer to peer down at his brother. "Why did you lie? You knew otherwise."

Mycroft closes his eyes and sighs heavily. "I had hoped you would move on."

Sherlock cocks his head. "Move on?"

Mycroft always loathes rehashing the months following the blast. He had only a few options then. One had been immediately rejected by their parents, but Mycroft had thought it would be easier for Sherlock if he had been moved to Australia while he was still in a coma. Perhaps it would have been seen as cruel, but it would have been a simpler way to start anew.

He rubs his face. Feeling irritable, he pushes away from the desk and walks to the window.

"Start anew. There were many countries you could have gone to and started over. You could have been William or Scott." He glances back to his little brother. "You could have been spared all this."

"Are you saying that if I had truly disappeared that all this," Sherlock waves his arm at the paper littered wall, "would have never occurred?"

"I cannot know. I am not blaming you for a deranged madman terrorising London." Mycroft looks at all the pages covering a relatively fresh coat of paint.

"Moving to Australia wouldn't have erased my scars. It wouldn't have change anything except scenery." Sherlock turns his back to his brother and attempts to concentrate on John's notes. 

Notes, he sighs. This is what they've been reduced to - brightly coloured sticky notes. He squints to decipher John's chicken scratch. Heavy pressure on the pad, Sherlock can see the indentation. John's mood wavered throughout the exercise. Sometimes the words are tall with long trails, annoyance. Others had been written with more care, less pressure and more rounded. Sherlock wonders if John had started angry but his mood had cooled as he worked, or if he had become increasingly agitated. 

Just a mere week ago, Sherlock had been able to communicate with John as 'David'. Inside the chat, Sherlock could be honest with his emotions at least. He would give Mike or John anything to make him happy, and had offered as much as John would take. Sherlock checks his phone. No messages from the application. No activity inside the grief group. Sherlock had spent his day in every topic looking for User 221. He had checked new users' topics. Nothing.

Sherlock checks his last message from 'Mike' - three days ago. They had chatted the night before Stamford's body had been discovered. The conversation had been pleasant with 'David' asking about 'Mike's' daughter and how they were getting on. They hadn't made plans to get together because 'Mike' still needed time. 'David' had promised to wait. Sherlock would wait forever for John. 

Sherlock stares at John's scrawl, but doesn't see the words. Has John figured it out? How many burn victims wander the internet? Or has John been told absolutely everything?

"Mycroft, did you tell John about David?" Slowly he turns around.

Mycroft's face does not betray him. "Sherlock, I did not divulge your confidence. It's not my tale to tell."

"I'm having a hard time believing you, brother mine," Sherlock clucks.

"This is between you and John. I'm removing myself from the situation." Mycroft collects the documents from his desk. 

Sherlock clenches his jaw. "Mycroft!"

Both brothers are distracted by the sound of muffled whimpering. Greta walks down the stairs with a bundle wrapped in a bee blanket in her arms. Unruly golden curls tuck in under the older woman’s chin. Sherlock freezes as they pause by the study threshold. He’s seen photos on Facebook, but she’s real and right in front of him. She’s a part of John and for that, he wants to reach out to feel that soft hair and be comforted by the warmth of her tiny body in his arms. 

“Her father was asleep so I went to get her,” Greta explains. “We’ll have a bit of a bottle then pop up to bed again, won’t we dear?”

Willa turns her head to consider Sherlock and Mycroft. She has John’s endless blue eyes: Sherlock’s heart stops. She is, in fact, perfect despite being half of Mary. 

Greta sees the tender look in Sherlock’s eyes and smiles. “Would you like to hold her?”

With his heart racing out of control, Sherlock staggers back a few steps. “No...I couldn’t. She doesn’t know me...a-and John wouldn’t like it.”

Willa watches Sherlock cautiously. Though she drops her head to Greta’s chest, her eyes do not leave him. 

Greta frowns. “Why wouldn’t he like it?”

“I-I just don’t think he would. I’m a stranger to her, and I don’t know how to even…” Sherlock stammers.

“Hmm,” Greta hums. “Maybe another time. I have a feeling she’s going to be here awhile, the little love. Shall we get that bottle?”

Willa grips Greta’s blouse tightly in her tiny fist. She keeps her eyes on Sherlock until Greta walks down the hall. 

Sherlock blinks and wonders why he has had such a visceral reaction to a tiny child. She just stared at me, he thinks. He wonders if his face has scared her. While she didn’t cry, she had been transfixed. Of course she would have never seen anything like Sherlock in her young life. 

When he glances up, Sherlock sees that Mycroft is observing him. His cheeks feel warmer than they were just moments ago. She is just a child, Sherlock admonishes himself. But she is John’s child, and it affects him. 

“Brandy?” Mycroft crosses the bar. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, I have to decipher these notes.” He waves his hand. “But you can go.”

Mycroft straightens his back as if he is offended but they both know he is not. Right now, Sherlock needs his brother to play the role of the insufferable Mycroft and make a hasty exit. He moves quickly to the door.

“Of course. Try to keep the damage to just one wall, Sherlock,” Mycroft sniffs and casts a gaze to the littered evidence wall. “Good night.”

Sherlock releases the breath he’s been holding since he’s laid eyes on Willa. He can try to blame the sleeplessness or the drugs Dr. Ian had administered. Perhaps the fact that he hasn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours, but he knows it is the baby that has knocked him off kilter. Combing his fingers through his hair, he forces himself back to the wall. He needs to focus and shut out all external stimuli. John, Willa, Mycroft - everyone. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath and counts to five under his breath. When he opens his eyes, he is ready to work.

\- - - - - 

John sticks Sherlock's notes in order on the coffee table before him. He notices that the detective's penmanship gets more erratic and fevered as the days go by. It's clear that Sherlock loathes this arrangement of collaborating by notes. While it gives Him a sense of pleasure to annoy Sherlock, John admits that it is less than productive. They would be more effective in the same room, but John is not ready for that.

Sipping his tea, he balances a yellow pad on his thigh. At least Willa has taken to her new home wonderfully. In the short time they've been at the Holmes estate, Willa has grown quite attached to Greta or 'Gee' as she squeals with happiness when she sees the housekeeper. Mycroft has been blessedly scarce and Greg has only popped by once. John had Greta inform him that he was with Willa and couldn't talk. Eventually, he will have to forgive these people or move on. Today, he's not as angry and thinks of knocking on Sherlock's door. Today, he's happy as hell the mad genius is alive and he feels foolish for staying away. 

John's phone buzzes on the coffee table. Glancing over he sees Sarah's number. 

Is a five hour shift okay tomorrow? If not, I can try to cover - Sarah 

John picks up his phone and considers her offer. He can't take advantage of her kindness any longer. For the past few days while he's settled in to Holmes house, Sarah has worked sixteen hour days and scrambles to cover his shifts. Through Carter, John has arranged to safely return to the clinic part time. Plain clothes agent will be stationed as patients and nurses. Even Carter will work as fellow doctor for John's protection. John feels a bit silly that so much planning has been put into a simple shift at the clinic, but it is the only way Mycroft would accept the risk to John. It is oddly comforting.

I'll be there at 10 as long as you're okay with the circus I bring - JW

I'll look forward to it. I miss you :) - Sarah

At one time, that emoticon would have meant something more than friendship. Even during his single times, he had wondered if maybe he should attempt to woo Sarah again. Over the years that spark has dissolved into a lovely friendship that he's thankful for. In his world, John's friends mean a certain amount of danger and deception. Sarah is a nice constant. 

Before putting away his phone, his finger hovers over the grief chat application. He hasn't heard from 'David' since the night Mike Stamford's body had been found. Has Mycroft betrayed John's request to leave it to him? John taps the chat open. Actually since the night Mary had been discovered, John had initiated all their conversations. Against his better judgment, he reads them - from a week ago. He carefully reads over 'David's' - no Sherlock's words. John senses that the emotion bleeding through is his Sherlock. It's the same man who wrote the letter still tucked away in John's jacket pocket. Sherlock had loved him once and perhaps still does. 

"Christ," John murmurs and drops his phone on the sofa beside him. 

Everything is such an amazing mess. Somewhere in this ridiculous house, Sherlock is hiding from John. However, he can say the same. Is John afraid of his own anger towards this poor scarred man? John shakes his head. No, Sherlock would never want to be pitied. John thinks to the file Mycroft had shown him. How Sherlock has suffered, locked away in various locations, alone. When he finally thinks he's made a connection to someone in the outside world, it turns out to the very man he is mourning. 

John grits his teeth. He didn't need to mourn me, he thinks bitterly. He would have accepted Sherlock, and no amount of charred skin or loss of mental acuity would have ever changed that. John could have helped him by being by Sherlock's side the entire time. Why didn't he trust me, John mourns. 

But there had been Mycroft behind all the moves and deception. Poor misguided Mycroft who had thought it would've been better for Sherlock to disappear into thin air and leave a wake of grieving people behind him. Did Sherlock really not know about 'Mike' until that awful night when John's life had begun to slowly unravel? John remembers feeling guilty for being free to be with 'David'. How he desperately had wanted to fall into the intimate strangers arms and cry or laugh. Now that man is just a floor below him. Is he that man or Sherlock? Are they both wrapped in the same damaged skin?

John's phone buzzes again. 

Are you going to Mike's wake? - Molly

Yes, he is a pallbearer. How could he refuse Stamford's widow such a simple request?after all, John is partly to blame for Mike's death. Someone out there is hunting the people most important to John and Sherlock. 

Yes, are you? - JW

After work, yes. How are things? - Molly

Tense. JW 

I thought of coming by but I know things are complicated - Molly 

I'd like if you would come by. I could use some non-Holmes company - JW

John wonders if Molly has talked with Sherlock since the day they had crashed into the morgue. He had been wrapped up in his own anger, he hasn't given Molly's feelings any credence. Unlike the last time, she had been in the dark. The last time. How many more could there be?

Shall I bring wine? - Molly 

Can you handle a case? - JW

He can practically hear her giggle on the other end.

Have you talked? - Molly 

God, not her too. With his free hand, John scrubs his face. 

Not yet. We've been avoiding one another - JW

No ellipses, Molly must be considering her response carefully. John stares at the phone for a full thirty seconds before she begins to reply.

How is Willa adjusting? - Molly 

John is grateful that she doesn't push it. 

She loves this place. I won't be able to pry her out of here - JW 

Maybe you won't have to ;) - Molly 

He shakes his head. 

I'm not moving in with Mycroft Holmes - JW 

That's encouraging. I'll see you at the wake :) - Molly 

Frowning at his fading phone screen, he wonders what Molly means by that. Perhaps he doesn't want to dwell on it. Instead, he opens his chats with 'David'. What if 'Mike' was to message ‘David’ right now? What would Sherlock do? What if John told him that he is ready to meet? Would Sherlock stall? Would he perpetuate the lie?

John's hand curls into a fist. It would be so easy to play Sherlock and use his emotions. But does he deserve such cruelty? And honestly, does John have the energy to sink to Mycroft's level?

Again, John drops his phone while he's tempted to do something truly stupid. No, his time and efforts need to be finding whoever is terrorising London, and more closely, his family and friends. If any harm comes to Willa....he swallows hard and thinks of his gun hidden in the closet. If he is going to put a bullet in anyone, it will be the bastard who has killed Mike and Mary. 

With determination, he perches on the edge of the sofa to pour over Sherlock's notes.

 

\- - - - - - - 

Sherlock stares at the ceiling with fingers steepled under his chin. Within his mind palace, he stands in John Watson's room. All of the good doctor's yellow notes decorate the oatmeal coloured walls. Unlike reality, John stands beside him with his hands clasped behind his back.

Sherlock points to one note. "You said we know her. I don't remember her."

John sighs. "Remember the hairpin worth millions? You gave it to the victim's assistant.."

"Lover," Sherlock interrupts.

Even in the mind palace, John rolls his eyes and huffs. "Well, the third victim is her. It's the assistant."

Sherlock gasps. "The bank note. Of course!"

In the distance, Sherlock hears a wail. His head whips around. There should be no one else but John and himself in here. 

"Did you hear that?" He turns look at John.

Slowly, John's image fades away but the wailing gets louder, closer.

Sherlock bolts upright. The sound is in the house, not the mind palace. And the cry comes from John's wing upstairs.

Against Sherlock's wishes, John has returned to work part time at the clinic. Of course, he didn't have the opportunity to offer his opinions on the matter. His anxiety is only lessened by the fact that Carter is with him. He had heard John leave a few hours earlier. But where is Greta?

Willa's cries grow louder and more agitated. Sherlock inches to the hallway. 

"Greta?" He calls hesitantly. 

Willa and John have been staying at the estate for nine days. While Sherlock had been aware there was a baby in the house, he's never heard her cry like this.

"Greta?" Sherlock calls again. 

It's unusual for no one to come running from somewhere when he calls. Something is wrong, very wrong. He glances up to John's floor. Whatever has happened, Willa is Sherlock's first priority. 

Quickly, he climbs the stairs to the third floor. The first door is closed, but the second is open. He peers inside the darkened room. Sunlight peeks through the shades. Against the wall, Willa stands in her cot with tears streaming down her face. 

"Gee! Gee! Da! Da!" She stretches her arms to the sky.

Sherlock scans the room before crossing to Willa.

"Up! Up!" Her arms reach for Sherlock.

"Greta?" He calls one last time. 

"Up!" She whines mournfully.

"Okay, okay Willa." He uses his what he hopes is his soothing voice. 

Carefully he lifts the little girl from cot. "Better?"

She's stopped crying and now regards Sherlock warily. "Gee?" She sniffles.

"We'll go find...Greta?" Sherlock assumes Willa means the matronly caregiver.

Another sniff. "Gee."

"Okay...let's wait here for a moment," Sherlock says soothingly. He's still not certain that the house is safe. While he has been under the impression that it is one man out to get him and John, he cannot be sure just yet. It would be a grave mistake to underestimate the murderer's ability to infiltrate Mycroft's fortress. 

With the pad of his thumb, Sherlock wipes the tears from Willa's plump cheeks. 

"You look so much like your father," he whispers gazing into her big blue eyes. 

She sniffles and searches his face. Small hands reach for his face. His first inclination is to flinch away from her touch, but her mood is tenuous at best. Forcing himself to hold still, he attempts an encouraging smile. 

One tiny hand pats his smooth cheek and the other touches the scarred skin on the other side. She looks at the gnarled skin then up at him quizzically.

"It's a burn," he answers her silent question. She pats him again. "Um, it's a boo-boo." He hopes that is the correct terminology for a child.

Somehow, Willa finds this funny and she giggles. Again, she touches the hard skin completely unperturbed by the feel of it.

"That's right. Boo-boo. An ouch," Sherlock offers reassuringly.

He has not had much interaction in the outside world. When he's left any of the various houses, it has usually been under the cover of darkness with a hood pulled over his head. The one afternoon he had ventured to a café, he had tried to ignore the stares and whispers. He had told himself he was above all that. While his body had been broken, he still had his brilliant mind. The ones that had gaped would always be idiots. He had tried at least.

Willa's open smile and giggle fills Sherlock's heart with so much - joy - that it causes him pain. In his mind, he has considered himself a bit of a freak, maybe even a monster for young children. However Willa doesn't just accept him, she is laughing and curling into him. Sure, it’s likely that the word 'boo-boo' sounds funny to her little ears. But Sherlock thinks she might genuinely like him.

"Boo," she giggles and touches his right cheek. "Boo!"

Suddenly Sherlock remembers that they could be in danger. He holds her close to his body, preparing to protect her with his life if need be. 

"Sherlock?" Greta's voice floats up from downstairs. "Do you have the baby?"

Sherlock hovers in the doorway. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I was taking a bath during her nap. Usually she gives me at least two hours. Can you change her and bring her down?" Greta calls up.

"Change her?" He looks at Willa in bewilderment.

"Yes, her nappy!"

"I've never done that. I have no idea how," panic creeps into Sherlock's voice.

"Sherlock Holmes, you managed to breakdown my pain meds and inject them in short order. You're a genius, you can certainly master a wet nappy!" Greta huffs. "I'm getting dressed."

"Greta!" Sherlock calls but he knows she's no longer at the bottom of the stairs. 

"Boo." Willa touches his cheek.

Sherlock sighs. "At least we aren't in danger, little one. You may feel differently in a few minutes." He glances around the room. "Now where does one change you?"

On the other side of the cot, Sherlock spies a contraption covered with soft padding. The shelf below it houses a basket filled with nappies. 

"Please forgive me," he mutters and places Willa on the padding. "Where does one begin?"

He wishes that he could have seen John or Greta even demonstrate this once. Willa's bee sleeper has so many snaps.

"I guess we start here?" Sherlock asks the blue-eyed girl. "You will have to stop kicking your legs, however."

Instead, Willa laughs and kicks her legs and arms in pure joy.

"Well this is impossible." Sherlock starts unsnapping the legs of the sleeper. 

Reaching for a new nappy, he keeps one hand on Willa. A fall from here could be life altering. Once her legs are free, Sherlock begins to remove the saggy nappy. He holds it with two fingers and searches for a nearby bin. 

He notices the foot pedal. "Hands free. That's wise." When the lid pops open, he wrinkles his nose against the waft of ammonia. "Willa, that's incredibly unpleasant smelling."

Willa doesn't care. She smiles and grabs her foot. Sherlock struggles with the new nappy . Do the tabs go in the front? He regards the squirming child and the piece of flimsy synthetic cloth. Unfortunately, he ponders them too long and a stream of urine shoots out onto Sherlock's hand. Her reaction is kick her legs and laugh.

"Oh Willa, really? Did your father tell you to do that?" Sherlock shakes his head in feigned disgust. "That's right Willa, pee on your uncle Sherlock." 

A sudden melancholy overtakes him. Does he have that right to be called 'uncle'? Yes, he and John had talked about it when they were back at Baker Steet, before Sherlock had convinced him to return to Mary. Too much has happened in the last year. Would John be angry to find out Sherlock is with Willa?

"Boo!" Willa's smile fades and the corners of her mouth turn down.

"I'm sorry. You must be cold." Sherlock looks frantically for a flannel or something. Beside the basket of nappies, there is a box of wipes. "Let's get you cleaned up." He looks at the wet spot on her bee sleeper. "And into dry clothes."

With renewed purpose, he manages to affix the clean nappy to Willa’s bottom. She watches him carefully as he strips her from her sleeper and scoops her up to search the room for clean clothes. 

“For a tiny thing, you certainly possess a ridiculous number of clothes,” he mutters, pulling on drawers to find the one containing sleepers. “However, if you are in the habit of urinating at every change, you may actually need all these.”

Sherlock pulls out a fuzzy yellow sleeper with kittens all over it. “I trust this meets with your approval.”

“Boo!” she cries joyfully. 

Sherlock has wrestled, has fenced, and has even excelled at boxing. None of those compare to wrangling a baby into a new sleeper with many snaps. It takes three tries before he successfully has her snapped correctly. 

“Willa, for my heart, please do not mess your nappy until I have handed you to Greta,” he sighs.

“Gee!” she says. 

Willa gurgles and babbles many things. Sherlock wonders what is going on her head. Does she think she’s having an actual conversation? He’s never considered doing any kind of research on babies, but after spending part of his afternoon with Willa, he thinks it might be beneficial - especially as is she staying at the Holmes manor. 

Sherlock holds her tightly to his chest as he navigates the stairs. Her tiny fingers pull on the curls at the base of his neck. Somehow, he maintains his grin while ignoring the pulling on his scalp. With every step, her laughter is music to his ears. He’s never heard such an amazing sound. Would she like the violin? Does she like music at all? Suddenly, he wants to know everything about her. 

“There you are. I see you muddled through just fine,” Greta glances at the monitor on the kitchen countertop. 

“Instructions would have been helpful,” Sherlock replies dryly. 

“Oh, it’s all in our make-up. Would you like to give her a bottle?” Greta pulls the bottle from a pan on the stove. 

“I have work to do.” Sherlock states but he can’t help passing his fingers through her soft curls. 

“Here.” Regardless of what he has said, Greta hands him the bottle. “The chairs in the study are perfect for feedings.”

“Well, fine. Okay then,” he mumbles. With a bottle and the baby, he wanders to the study. 

“Boo.” Willa reaches for the bottle eagerly. 

“Let’s sit, shall we?” Sherlock settles into one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. 

Her little hands guide the bottle to her mouth. Settling in against Sherlock’s shoulder, she keeps one hand on the bottle and plays with the button of his shirt with the other. The small sighs and hums cause an overwhelming warmth to bloom in his chest. Does John feel like this when he gazes at Willa? Her round eyes take Sherlock in with nothing but acceptance. He chuckles to himself. It has taken less than thirty minutes to become absolutely smitten with this little girl.


	68. Chapter 68

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Thank you," Molly says to the agent in the black suit. 
> 
> With a curt nod, he closes the rear door to the black sedan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been a crap week so I thought I'd make myself feel better by posting a chapter. 
> 
> Thank you to all the sets of eyes - callie1480, 221bjen, burning_up_a_sun and fruitbat. Without them, this would be a mess and utter crap. As well as correcting my atrocious grammar, they are wonderful to discuss plot ideas with. 
> 
> Thank to my readers. I really, really cherish everyone that reads this incredibly arduous angst-fest. I know I do not make it easy. I hope the steps they take to get back together are true to their characters and the situation at hand.

"Thank you," Molly says to the agent in the black suit. 

With a curt nod, he closes the rear door to the black sedan. 

Molly had been impressed with the wrought iron gates and perfectly landscaped grounds. The Holmes Estate looms before her, cold and ominous. She knows she should have called John before she just turned up. Truthfully, she's not really here for him.

"Do I just...?" She points to the front door.

"Someone will answer," the agent replies. "I'll take you home when you're ready."

Molly smiles weakly. "Of course."

Since the day she had walked in on Sherlock in the morgue, her life has been different. Greg had informed her that Sherlock and John were considered targets - and everyone in their world was now in danger. She is starting to get used to the sound of steps behind her and the car service that now waits for her after her shift every night.

Molly steels herself as she approaches the heavy front door. She's not certain if her visit will be welcomed. Deep down, she's still a bit hurt that Sherlock never reached out to her. Molly had proven herself to be a good confidante in the past, after all. The door opens before she reaches up to the ring the bell. She expects to see a stuffy butler in a morning coat but is greeted by Mycroft in a bespoke suit.

“Good morning, Miss Hooper. I take that your ride was comfortable?” He steps back to let her in.

“Yes, um, thank you.” She fiddles with the tassels of her scarf. Of course Mycroft would know she had arrived.

“And my men have been treating you well? They aren't impeding your life in any way?” He turns to pull on a cashmere overcoat.

“They've been fine.” She nods. 

Mycroft offers a tight smile. “Excellent. He's in the study.” He nods his head to the first threshold on the left.

“Oh, thanks.” She pauses before she goes. “Does he know I'm here?”

“I have not informed him. Good day, Miss Hooper.” Mycroft closes the front door behind him.

Molly sheds her wooly mittens and inches towards the study. The sound of Sherlock’s voice is surreal after nearly a year of silence. She had missed his condescending tone and rare praise. Biting her lip, she moves through the doorway to be absolutely thrown by the sight she sees.

Dressed in a cozy sleeper covered with stars and moons, Willa Watson rests her head on Sherlock’s shoulder as he sways in front a wall that is covered with pictures, autopsy reports and bright yellow sticky notes. 

“Your father was very clear.” Sherlock points to a note. “He remembered that this woman also worked at the museum where we visited Soo Lin. Of course he would remember that; your father was always better with the people. Me, I have no gift with human contact. Now this person, I do remember. His entire flat was filled with trains. He was fairly helpful so it is sad that he is now dead.”

Molly can’t help but gasp at the scene of Sherlock holding a child with such care that her heart shatters. 

Sherlock whirls around and places a protective hand over Willa. He lets out a sigh when he sees Molly wringing her hands in the doorway. “It took you long enough.”

She frowns. “Long enough for what?”

“To visit. I figured that you would be chomping at the bit to come here.” He glances down to Willa who burrows closer to him with a cautious eye on Molly. “I’m certain you’ve met Willa.”

Hesitantly, Molly inches closer. “I have, but it’s been awhile since she’s seen me.” She watches the little girl fist Sherlock's crisp dress shirt. “She's quite taken with you.”

Sherlock glances down with a slight grin. “This is a new development.”

“What does John think of it?” Molly waves to Willa.

The smile slips from Sherlock's face. “I don't think he knows. Not certain he would approve.”

“Why? She loves you, clearly. I think he'd only care that someone is caring for her. And that the someone loves her.” Molly beams.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You came here for?”

Without permission, she sheds her tattered red coat. “I wanted to see how you were. I didn't get to say anything that day.”

“The day you and John came crashing in during an autopsy? Yes, I was a bit under the weather.” Sherlock walks to the space between the two leather chair to set Willa down on a midnight blue blanket.

“Is that the periodic table?” Molly asks.

“Yes, Mycroft purchased it.”

Molly raises her eyebrows. “Mycroft? It's truly amazing to see what a baby does to the Holmes men.”

Sherlock hands Willa a rubber giraffe. “Well, you've seen me, so...off you go.”

“How are you really?” Molly perches on one of the chairs.

“Burnt to a crisp. Chasing a murderer who is killing people connected to me. Living under the same roof with a man who can't bear to be in the same room as me.” Sherlock points to notes on the wall. “How do you think I am?”

Molly nods. “John said you weren't talking.”

“Why did you ask then?” Sherlock narrows his eyes. “You talked to John? When?”

“At the service for Mike Stamford,” Molly replies.

Sherlock slips his hands into his trousers. “Yes, that.”

“It's not your fault,” Molly offers.

His head snaps up. “I never said it was.”

“Sherlock, I know you better than that.“

Scowling, he turns to the evidence wall. He had been having a lovely afternoon with Willa before Molly came by. 

“What happened over there, Sherlock?” Her voice breaks through his thoughts.

“It's not obvious? I was injured and burned in a blast. Don't pretend you don't notice,” he snarls.

“No one cares about that, Sherlock. We only care that you’re alive,” she says calmly.

It’s true that he has not seen Molly recoil or even look at him differently. With Willa in his arms, he had forgotten to turn away or hide himself.

“Do you remember anything about it?” Molly asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not much.” He clenches his fist. “I can't remember why I was in that building.” He moves to the fireplace. “There are weeks I cannot account for. I can only rely on what Mycroft has told me, and who knows if that is the truth.”

“I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I'm very glad you're back,” she says.

Sherlock lets out a humourless guffaw. “You're the only person. And I'm here to solve this case. After that, who knows?”

Molly frowns. “Where would you go?”

He purses his lips. “Oh, I don't know. Mycroft says that Australia is very nice.”

Molly stands so abruptly that Willa turns to stare at her. “I don't want you to go. And you can't do that to John again.”

Sherlock whirls around. “I should think he would be glad to be rid of me. I'm sure he wishes that I remained ‘dead’. This,” Sherlock waves a hand over himself, “only complicates things, his life. He has suffered and I am a constant reminder of what an association with me has done to him.”

“Oh Sherlock,” Molly sighs. “You are both ridiculous fools.” She sees Sherlock’s expression close off completely. Perhaps coming was a bad idea. She kneels beside Willa who happily shows Molly her giraffe. 

Sherlock turns his back on them both to stare at the wall without really seeing any of the pictures and words. He has tried very hard to not think about what happens after the case. In such a short time, Willa has become a part of his world behind the walls that keep everyone else out. When John is away, Sherlock makes every effort to spend time with Willa. What if that all goes away?

Molly scoops up the baby and stands beside Sherlock. “You’ve both been through a lot. You’re angry. He’s angry and both are justifiable. But anger has a way of burning out or fading.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “I’m not angry with him.”

“I know.” 

Willa reaches for Sherlock from Molly’s arms. Without hesitation, he collects her and bounces her as she curls into him.

“It’s almost time for a nap,” he announces like a knowing father. “Can’t believe I just said that.” A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“How can he be mad at you with a scene like this?” Molly beams. 

“We are a good distraction for each other.” Sherlock shrugs casually. 

Molly raises her eyebrows. “Distraction?”

“Don’t let him fool you, dear,” Greta announces from the threshold. “He insisted on a having a baby monitor in his room for when Dr. Watson is not at home.”

“Thank you Greta. Just the bottle if you would be so kind,” Sherlock says with annoyance. “Nosey housekeeper.”

Molly giggles. “Sherlock Holmes with a baby monitor?”

“Safety first,” he quips. His eyes cloud over as he stares at John’s writing. “When he’s upstairs with her, changing a nappy or putting her to bed...I listen….sometimes. Just to hear his voice, gentle and not filled with contempt or disappointment.”

Molly places a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “It won’t always be like that. He’ll come around.”

“I’ve done this to him twice. I can’t come back from that,” Sherlock says.

“It’s different this time, and you know that. Give him space, and he will come around,” Molly says. She takes a deep breath and looks at the evidence wall. Time to switch topics. “This is impressive. Is this everything?”

Sherlock’s posture straightens and his demeanor shifts. “Everything I can get my hands on. It’s not easy when you are a ghost.”

“Now that we know, how long before you aren’t a ghost?” Molly asks. 

“Mycroft is apparently working out the details of my return, so to speak. He’s very cryptic about it all, and I have to admit it’s a bit unsettling. If I weren’t so busy with this,” he waves to the wall, “I would be looking into what my brother is possibly hiding. I just don’t have the space for that between this case and John.”

“Seven victims. All connected to you and John,” Molly chews on her lip.

“Yes, it’s why John was brought here and Mrs. Hudson is still in the dark. She is being monitored by Mycroft’s best men.” Sherlock turns to her. “You're being safe, yes?”

“Yes, I have people always with me. It's good I'm single again,” she titters awkwardly.

“I'm sorry to hear that, Molly. He must not have been worthy.” Sherlock takes a half step away.

“Sherlock Holmes, stop. I've been well over you for years. I know where your heart lies,” she clucks knowingly.

A flush spreads from his neck to his cheeks. “I wasn't trying to…”

“It's fine, Sherlock. I didn't mean to overstep. I consider you a dear friend, that's all. So you don't have to worry about me, okay?” Molly reassures him with a tiny smile.

He pats Willa's back gently. “Just keep sharp. There hasn't been a victim in a few weeks. I think he knows.”

“He?” Molly tilts her head.

“The killer.” Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically. 

“That you're alive?”

“My death was never common knowledge. Mycroft gave that story to my close associates to provide me with a window to leave England. No, I think the suspect knows John is here, living at the same residence,” Sherlock says.

“What makes you think that?” Molly’s heart races.

“He kills on a cycle, usually ten days from when he targets his next victim to when the body is discovered. It’s been longer. Is he looking for the next victim? How does he choose them? How long does he follow them? How long does he keep them alive? I don't know who is the target or what is the agenda.” He holds Willa closer. “I don't like not knowing.”

 

\- - - - 

 

It takes at least thirty minutes to get from the clinic to the Holmes manor. John is thankful that he has that time to prepare himself for a possible run in with Sherlock. He sips a coffee and watches the city pass from the backseat of a black suv. A wiry agent with dark wavy hair like Sherlock's drives while Carter chats amiably beside him. Neither attempt to engage John in conversation and for that he is grateful. 

In the past few weeks of this commute, John has seen the Christmas season blossom in the store fronts he passes. Slowly one by one, more houses string up lights and inflate snowmen and colourful Santas. John has accepted that Willa's first Christmas will be at the Holmes Estate. He imagines that Mr. and Mrs. Holmes will visit.

His heart sinks when he thinks to last year. The reconciliation he hadn't wanted. The confrontation with Magnussen that had landed Sherlock in a holding cell for over a week with no contact. That awful farewell with so many things to say and none of them uttered. And of course the loss of Sherlock. Not being able to see or talk to him had driven John mad. Secretly, he had counted the 180 days Sherlock had promised.

John blinks against the tears that threaten in the corner of his eyes. But the mad bastard is alive and only a floor physically separates them. He knows for everyone’s sake that peace will need to be made for the good of the case and the holidays. His anger wavers from day to day. Some days he wants to knock on the door and throw his arms around Sherlock and never let go. Others, he wants to punch his lights out.

While the house is huge and they've managed to keep away from each other, some nights John can hear the mournful violin even with his bedroom door closed. The technique is not as polished as it has been before. He can hear Sherlock's frustration as the bow scrapes the strings angrily. Then after a few minutes of silence, the music starts again. After a few attempts, it might dissolve in a discordant solo before everything falls silent. On those nights, it feels like John's heart is being plucked like that violin. Hearing Sherlock's pain tears him up. John knows that Sherlock's scars impede playing, but the frustration has many layers.

“Did you want to stop for take away?” Carter twists in the front seat.

John scrubs a hand over his face. “Not tonight. I want to give Willa a bath tonight so I'll eat later.”

“Certainly.” Carter nods.

John glances at his watch. He has ten minutes to himself before landing home. Closing his eyes, he settles into the corner of the backseat to turn off his mind for a bit. His body floats along with the car. The hushed conversation in the front seat and hum of the engine lull him to a light doze.

“We're here, Dr. Watson,” the driver announces suddenly.

John's eyes flutter open. He scratches his head and sits upright. “Good, thanks.”

Carter open his door. “I'll see you tomorrow?”

John shakes his head. “No, I'm off. Spending the day with Willa.”

“Will you be going out?” Carter asks.

“I'm not sure.” It's then that he realises Willa hasn't left the estate since they had come to live here.

“If you do, call me,” Carter says. “I'm available.”

John smiles tightly. “Do you ever get a day off?”

“Sometimes. But I'd be rightly put out if I found out you or Sherlock left the house without someone with you,” Carter states.

“Of course.” John nods. “I'll let you know.”

“Good night then.” Carter stands to attention beside the car.

“You're going to stand there until I'm in the house, aren't you?” John suppresses an amused smirk. 

“I am.”

“Carter, if it wasn't as cold as a witch’s tit, I'd take you on.” John rubs his hand together against the bite in the air. “Good night.”

John pauses in the doorway of the house, yet Carter has not budged. Only after the front door closes does the agent slip back into the car.

John shrugs off his coat and allows the warmth of the house to defrost him. He does love smelling the burning wood. Despite some the inhabitants, the Holmes manor radiates a warmth he hasn't felt since….Baker Street. John banishes the inclination to explore that thought. 

Looking at the ornate Grandfather clock in the foyer, John makes his way to the kitchen. Greta usually puts Willa in her chair to play while the she buzzes around making dinner. 

“Six bees buzzing, flying through the sky. One sees a daisy, and now there are five,” John hears a deep voice recite. With the timbre and tone, John knows he is not mistaken. 

Warily, John inches to the doorway of the study. His heart races with every step.

“Four bees are buzzing, on the apple of a tree, one sees a green worm, now there are three.”

John peeks around the corner. Nothing could prepare him for the sight before him. Framed by the orange glow of the fire, Sherlock sits cross legged on the rug with a content Willa nestled on his lap. Her bumble bee book looks small in his large hands. She points to the page.

“That's a flower. Actually, a poor representation of a sunflower, but most children literature is fairly bleak and written by imbeciles. When you're older, I'll read you Grimm fairy tales. Fewer pictures, but better imagery.” His fingers comb through her curls affectionately. 

Willa leans back and rests her head against Sherlock's chest.

John is absolutely rooted to the spot, paralysed by the scene in front of him. He wonders how long they've been sitting there, like peas in a pod. Numerous toys are scattered on the rug indicating a lengthy play date. 

He should be angry, but watching the two people who mean the most to him in such a tender moment sends John reeling. His hand reaches out for the doorframe to steady himself.   
The desire to wrap his arms around them both and hold them as tightly as he can causes his knees buckle. He never had expected Sherlock to be so gentle and yet still Sherlock. 

“Bee!” Willa turns to look up at Sherlock.

“Well done, little one.” Sherlock smiles.

The affection in Sherlock's voice reaches into John's chest and burns. 

“Boo,” she giggles and twists in Sherlock’s arm.

“Easy now. We have to finish,” Sherlock chuckles lightly.

Willa turns her head. “Da! Da!” Her arms reach toward the threshold.

Sherlock’s body goes rigid, and he ducks his head away from the door, and John.

“Hello, love. Um, got your bee book?” John struggles to hide the strain from his voice. 

It's the first time since the morgue that they've been in the same room. Neither are aware of the number of near misses in the last few weeks. 

John takes a tentative step into the study. Though Willa is his daughter, he feels as if he's trespassing on their moment.

Gathering the little girl in his arms, Sherlock scrambles to his feet. The bumble bee book slips to the floor. All the ease Sherlock had possessed moments before has evaporated. Refusing to pick up his head to meet John’s eye, he shuffles forward. 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock mutters as he hands Willa to her father. “I didn't mean…”

He never meets John's eye before he flies out of the room and up the stairs, leaving John utterly shell-shocked. It occurs to him that he never even had a chance to see Sherlock's face but he can still feel where their hands had brushed. The late-night violinist is not a mirage but flesh and bone - and just a few steps away. 

“Boo!” Willa reaches toward the staircase. 

John's cheeks still burn, but he's not sure why. 

“Boo.” Willa's head sinks to John's shoulder sulkily. 

“Is that what you call him?” John's voice shakes a little.

“Oh, Dr. Watson...welcome home.” Greta emerges down the hall wiping her hand in a kitchen flannel. “Where's Sherlock?”

John blinks a few times in an effort to gather some composure. “He just went upstairs.”

Greta glances up the staircase. “Oh, he was going to feed Willa. We didn't expect you home this early.”

John sets his jaw. “Apparently not.” He can't pinpoint what he's feeling. It's not anger exactly. Perhaps a sense of betrayal that Sherlock has forged some kind of relationship with HIS daughter. Is it to appeal to John, to get back into his good graces?

Greta shifts her weight defensively. “He plays the violin for her. Some days I think she misses her mum, bless her heart. He plays the violin for her and it calms her down right quick. Granted he's a bit rusty since the accident. He's not flawless, but Willa pays no mind to that.”

John's mouth hangs open, but no words form in his mind. 

“He's quite taken with her.” Greta smiles warmly and caresses her cheek. “But who wouldn't be, such a little love.” She looks to John. “Well, you might as well join us for dinner.” Her eyes turn to the stairs again. “He won't be down for hours. I'll keep something warm for him, not that he'll eat it.”

“Uh, sure. Let me just wash up,” he manages to choke out.

“Here, give her to me. We'll start while you clean up.” Greta scoops Willa from John's arms and pads toward the kitchen.

John runs a shaky hand through his hair. He swears that Sherlock's smell still surrounds him. How could they be so close and yet oceans apart? 

“He wouldn’t look at me,” John mutters miserably. 

The Sherlock of old would have never scampered away like a scolded dog. It kills John to see him so subservient, so broken. 

John’s feet carry him to the wash room down the hall, but he feels that he’s left his head back in the study. It had felt electric to be in the same room as Sherlock, to actually feel that deep voice even if it is just reading a children’s nursery rhyme. And when he brushed by John, it had awakened a need inside of him. God, he misses Sherlock. He feels foolish because he has him right there in front of him, under the same roof and breathing the same air. What is holding him back from going to the detective and holding him tight? 

John turns on the taps and cups his hands under the water. Carelessly, he splashes his face with the cool water, not caring that his jumper is getting wet. He needs to get himself together in a very short time. His daughter needs to be fed and bathed. He’ll have to deal with the complex problem of Sherlock another day. He blinks at his blurry image in the mirror. He’s just not ready, not yet. For some reason, he doesn’t trust his emotions when it comes to the great, mad genius.


	69. Chapter 69

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard Cooper hates leaving the warm car to follow Mrs. Hudson. Across the street, Agent Rogers could sit in his car and track Howard and the old lady as she goes to the shops. Howard considers him a lucky sod.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another trying week so another chapter. 
> 
> Thanks to all my betas and creative team! callie4180, 221bjen, fruitbat, Irene and Burning_up. Without you, these chapters would be absolute crap - so thank you.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who reads and to those who comments. I love the discussions that happen after I post a chapter. I hope that I deliver the best chapter every time.

 

Howard Cooper hates leaving the warm car to follow Mrs. Hudson. Across the street, Agent Rogers could sit in his car and track Howard and the old lady as she goes to the shops. Howard considers him a lucky sod. He prefers his detail with Ms. Hooper. With her, he doesn't have to be stealthy. She invites him inside for tea and chocolate biscuits. They chat for hours in her sitting room with her orange tabby cat, Scottie, curled up in his lap. He likes the way Ms. Hooper smiles and tucks her hair behind her ear, with her tiny gold hoop earrings. Ms. Hooper with the gold hoops.

 

Yet today, Howard stuff his hands in the pockets of his wool coat to shuffle behind Mrs. Hudson. She stops to chat with other old ladies as she makes her way down the street. How awfully boring.

 

Howard knows there's a killer on the streets hunting down people who know Sherlock Holmes. He can't imagine who would have a beef with Ms. Hooper or Mrs. Hudson. Guess it doesn’t matter when an impact needs to be made. After all, it’s fairly horrifying to murder sweet old ladies.

 

As Mrs. Hudson strolls along, Howard pretends to window shop. He plays Words with Friends on his mobile. A smile spreads across his face after he beats Agent Carter for the third straight time.

 

“Rogers, you have her? I'm ducking down here to get her further up,” Howard says.

 

“Cheers. I'll let you know if you need to run.” Rogers voice crackles over the earpiece.

 

Howard cuts down a parallel street to avoid being spotted. So far, Mrs. Hudson has not noticed the team of people keeping her safe. From the new postman to a new girl at Speedy’s. Howard isn't sure why this woman means so much to Sherlock, but it's his job to keep her safe as a kitten.

 

Brightly coloured flowers catch his eye as he darts down a side street. He wonders if it crosses a line to buy Ms. Hooper a bunch. Mr. Holmes might find it losing objectivity. Maybe once this business is over he can ask her on a proper date with flowers and dinner.

 

Once a week, Mrs. Hudson has lunch at the Royal China. Howard doesn't mind because they have the best pork Lo Mein in the area. Mrs. Hudson always orders a number 2, chicken Chow Mein with two egg rolls. She chats with the young waitress, Ling and drinks tea while reading the paper. It's the only time she does read the proper newspaper. When she goes to the cafe, she usually reads the tabloids they have on the tables.

 

Howard sends a message to Rogers to let him know where they are and that he has roughly forty minutes to get lunch himself. After lunch, Mrs. Hudson will meander home and stay in for the evening. Usually she'll order take away from a nearby Indian restaurant. Howard can read a book in his warm car and wait for the night shift to arrive.

 

Overall, it's not a bad gig. He makes enough money from just following people around. With the  extra cash, he had been able to buy his mum a nice Burberry coat for winter. The days can drag on though. It's fine when he's with Ms. Hooper. He rather looks forward to those days. But today is another long day that his gun sits pressed to his side unused. He wonders if he'll ever see real action.

 

While Mrs. Hudson is in the middle of her lunch, Howard uses the wash room. It will be hours before he can use one again. He is always relieved to see her sitting where he left her. Ling stands with the cheque, a fortune cookie and a little bag - of green herbs. Howard squints as he passes. Those are not herbs that Mrs. Hudson is buying, but cannabis. Talk about a fortune cookie.

 

As he slips into his booth again, he suppresses a giggle. The old lady comes to Royal

China for lunch and pot on Wednesdays. It explains the take away later.

 

This is too rich, he thinks as he types out a text to Rogers.

 

Do we arrest her? Rogers

 

Howard frowns. Sometimes that man has no humour at all.

 

No! We aren't police! HC

 

Do we report it to police? Rogers

 

Howard rolls his eyes.

 

Let her have her soother. I just thought it was funny. HC

 

Rolling his eyes, Howard puts some notes on the cheque and rushes outside before Mrs. Hudson.

 

Another chilly stroll back home. He does notice a slight spring to the old lady’s step. He can't blame her, it looks like a bag a decent quality weed. If Mycroft didn't perform random drug tests, he would befriend Mrs. Hudson so he could partake in a smoke and take away.

 

The sun sinks behind the buildings, taking the warmth with it. Howard hopes that Mrs. Hudson is less active in the winter. He can't wait to get to his car. Just a few more hours, then he's done.

 

From down the street, Howard watches Mrs. Hudson slip into 221. Quickly, he shuffles to his uninteresting sedan and reclines his seat. His phone has pinged on the walk back, and he knows it is Carter’s valiant attempt to win a game. While Howard doesn't have Carter’s compact brawn, he is smarter than most agents on Mycroft's detail. Hopefully, he'll be able to move up in ranks swiftly.

 

He glances out the window to see the delivery man from the Indian restaurant bringing Mrs. Hudson her post smoke snack. Howard chuckles to himself and goes back to his paper. At this hour, it's old news but it will keep him occupied until the shift change.

 

Howard is in the middle of the crossword when a bang on his window startles him. His fingers fumble to reach for the gun at his hip. Through a foggy window, he sees an irate Mrs. Hudson, practically standing in the middle of the street.

 

“Lady,” he calls lowering his window. “You're in the middle of the road.”

 

“Why are you following me, young man?” She hollers.

 

“Bollocks...shit….,” Howard mutters. This will certainly cost him his job.

 

“Excuse me?” She barks.

 

“I'm waiting for my girl to get out of work,” he blurts.

 

Mrs. Hudson plants her hands on her hips. “Where? All the shops are closed.”

 

“She's a nanny,” he replies with uncertainty.

 

Mrs. Hudson brandishes an old flip style mobile phone. “We'll see what the police say about this.”

 

“Wait!” He scrambles out of car. “Let's talk.”

 

She tries to dial while crossing the street.

 

“Fuck,” Howard hisses. “Wait, please, Mrs. Hudson.”

 

She shirks away. “How do you know my name?”

 

“Can we go inside to talk?” He gestures to her front door.

 

She pulls her coat around herself tightly. “I'm not letting a stranger into my house.”

 

“But you'll confront one on a dark street?” He asks.

 

She opens her phone again.

 

“Okay, okay. I was hired by Mycroft Holmes to keep you safe!” The words rush out of his mouth.

 

“Mycroft? Why?” She stops to look up at the frantic agent.

 

“There's a killer targeting people who know Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.” He knows he'll be sacked for certain.

 

“You mean like Mary and that Mike fellow?” She gasps.

 

“Yes, I've been ordered to keep you and Ms. Hooper safe until they can figure who's after them,” Howard explains. He glances up and down the street. This confrontation has probably been captured on CCTV. Wonderful.

 

“They?”

 

“Yes, Dr. Watson and Sher - I mean Mycroft.” Howard closes his eyes. He has completely forgotten that unlike Ms. Hooper, Mrs. Hudson does not know Sherlock is alive.

 

Her eyes grow as wide as saucers. “Sherlock?” She whispers.

 

“No, I meant Mycroft Holmes.” He knows it's too late.

 

Mrs. Hudson’s face hardens. “Young man, you take me to Mycroft Holmes immediately. And I have my phone. I will call the police, Greg Lestrade even, if there is any funny business!”

 

Howard’s shoulders slump. “Yes ma’am.” He pauses to offer his hand to her. “I'm Howard, by the way.”

 

She ignores his offer. “Let's go, Howard.” With her head high, she charges toward Howard’s car.

 

I am so dead, he sighs inwardly.

 

-    -    -    -    -    -   

  
  


John's eyes pop open as the sedan nears home. While he's missed Willa, he's thankful she will be tucked up in her cot. It had been a busy day consisting of nearly every ailment under the sun. He wants a hot shower to wash the stench of vomit away. His shirt had been a total loss, and the scratchy material of the clinics scrubs are now giving him contact dermatitis. Even dinner seems like too much effort.

 

Since the evening he had found Sherlock and Willa together, John hasn't been able to sleep. He stares at the ceiling of his vast bedroom, torn between going to Sherlock and allowing things to continue as they have. Greta had asked John point blank if he had wanted her keep Willa from Sherlock. John knew it was a challenge, perhaps to test him. He couldn't do that to Willa or Sherlock. The look of defeat and guilt on Sherlock's face as he handed Willa to him before he had fled the room has haunted John. Sometime soon, John is going to have to take a few steps toward forgiveness for both their sakes.

 

The car swings into the driveway, and John rolls his eyes when he sees Greg’s car parked in front of the house. Does that mean Sherlock is working? For weeks, their schedules have allowed them to live in the same house with basically no interaction. Whether by  coincidence or design, Sherlock works overnight or when John is at the clinic. Will he be forced to work with Sherlock? John refuses to work under someone else's conditions. He will slip upstairs to shower and wait everyone out.

 

“Sir,” the agent nods to him when he opens John's door.

 

“Thanks.” John pauses before climbing the front stairs. He hopes that he can slip inside the house covertly.

 

Slowly, John unlocks and pushes the heavy door open. A warm glow emanates from the study. Male voices echo through the entryway - Greg and Mycroft. Is there another victim? The knots in his stomach tighten. He doesn't hear Sherlock's voice among the chatter. Whatever it is, John decides he can deal with it later. He's still not ready to be in the same room with any of them. The volume climbs as tempers appear to rising. John definitely wants no part of this discussion.

 

Then he hears Mrs. Hudson’s voice among Greg and Mycroft's. What is she doing here? She is the last person to still think Sherlock is dead. Did they hide him upstairs?

 

Against his better judgment, John inches toward the study. As expected, Mycroft sits in a chair with one leg casually draped over the other. Greg paces in front of the desk, talking with his hands. Carter leans against a bookcase beside a cowering young man with unruly dark hair and large glasses. And in the centre of the storm sits Sherlock behind the desk with Mrs. Hudson draped over him like a shawl.

 

For a moment John considers fleeing the scene. No one has spotted him hovering in the threshold. Yet the defeated look on Sherlock's face keeps him rooted.

 

“And you!” Mrs. Hudson catches sight of John. “How long have you known?”

 

Sherlock's head snaps up and John is trapped by those stormy green eyes.

 

“Just a few weeks. Since Mike’s death,” he replies.

 

“When were any of you going to tell me?” Mrs. Hudson cries.

 

Greg shuffles forward. “Mrs. Hudson, we haven't told anyone about Sherlock.”

 

“I should have known when there was no service.” She rounds on John. “You told me he was on a classified mission and that's why it was hush hush.”

 

“That's what I was told,” he says, but his eyes do not leave Sherlock’s. He's not sure that he's even blinked.

 

“If you are looking for a villain, then I am your man,” Mycroft says. “I made the decision for Sherlock's sake.”

 

Mrs. Hudson releases Sherlock from her tight hug to storm over to Mycroft. “His sake? To take him away from people who love and care about him when he needs them most? I am definitely having a word with your mother!”

 

“My parents are in Florida. I'm sure you remember how lovely Miami can be this time of year,” Mycroft smirks.

 

“Oh!” Mrs. Hudson huffs.

 

Mycroft stands and runs a hand down the front of his bespoke suit. “There are things you couldn't possibly understand.”

 

The voices dull to a hum, like background noise. Sherlock is flesh and blood sitting behind Mycroft's centuries old desk. He hasn't moved an inch and his eyes have not left John's. While he dips his head into shadow, his eyes burn through John.

 

John's legs won't move him from the room to a different floor. So much of him wants to run, but he's caught in Sherlock's gaze. Sweat pools at the small of his back, soaking the bottom of his scratchy scrubs. He's certain his chest is heaving, trying to get air into his lungs. Sherlock is here, and John can't decide if he wants feel feel the crunch of the detective’s nose under his fist, or the crush of those lips on his. At the moment, he wants both. Maybe first punch him for playing dead, then kiss him for being alive- taste the salty tang of his blood on John's tongue.

 

“No, Mycroft is not calling you daft, are you?” Greg turns to glare at the stoic man.

 

“I never used those exact words. What I need everyone to realise is gravity of the situation we are dealing with. Reintroducing Sherlock to London is a delicate task,” Mycroft says.

 

“Task?” Mrs. Hudson roars. “Mycroft Holmes, you should be ashamed of yourself, treating your own brother as a ‘task’ and a prisoner. And you lied to us! To make us mourn for him - again!”

 

“Mrs. Hudson, no one is denying Mycroft's poor decision making on this. He has admitted to that. We're trying to keep everyone safe,” Greg says calmly. “Though it was poorly done, he was just acting in Sherlock's best interest.”

 

“Did you think to ask him what he wanted? Did he want to leave us?” Mrs. Hudson demands.

 

“We made the decision as a family.” Mycroft turns to Sherlock whose gaze doesn't waver from John.

 

“What about us? We are his family too!”

 

Mrs. Hudson’s voice fills the large study. Sherlock knows this fight is not just about him, but over him. He should feel honoured, but it feels claustrophobic. Pushing away the voices around him, Sherlock focuses on John. Several minutes have passed without even a blink. He can see John's chest heaving. Is it anger, or something else? What other emotion could he be experiencing?

 

Is John looking at his scars? Suddenly feeling self conscious, Sherlock turns his head away from the light but doesn't hide from those dark blue eyes. Same eyes as Willa. His heart races with every passing minute. He wants to cross the room and ask for forgiveness. To touch John's arm and feel the warmth of his smile again.

 

Sherlock feels panic clawing up from his chest and digging into his brain. It's too much to be in the same room and have all this distance. He knows that John's opinion of him has changed and not for the better. Sherlock might never hear the words ‘amazing’ and ‘brilliant’ fall from his lips again.

 

It’s a tumultuous storm, and John and Sherlock are frozen in its eye. They hear the hysteria from Mrs Hudson and detached cool of Mycroft. Greg interjects when he finds space. Meanwhile, their gaze never breaks as they each calculate a next step.

 

Finally blinking, the voices surround Sherlock once again. He doesn't pay much mind to what they say, but he needs to do something. Thoughtfully, he stands and moves from behind the desk to consider the evidence wall.

 

“You have to stop controlling everyone's lives under the guise of love!” Mrs. Hudson huffs.

 

“Thank you, Martha. Once again you have a very limited scope of the way these matters work. Sherlock will always be my concern. I will not repeat myself. As an extension of Sherlock, I offer you my protection because your life could be in danger,” Mycroft says.

 

“So instead of telling me, you just had your goons follow me,” Mrs Hudson gestures to Agent Cooper shrinking in the corner. “And you are not allowed to address me by my first name, young man!”

 

Sherlock feels someone approach on his left side. John appears out of the corner of his eye. Holding perfectly still as to not scare John away, he purses his lips. The last thing he wants to do is say something to anger.

 

John clears his throat, eyes on the wall. “You've been getting my notes?”

 

“Your torturous method of communication? Yes,” Sherlock nods.

 

John shakes head, but at least there is the hint of a grin. “You're still an insufferable arse.”

 

“I would hate to disappoint anyone.” Sherlock shrugs lightly.

 

“I'm enjoying Mycroft having his arse handed to him,” John's eyes wander over the wall. “He's overdue.”

 

Sherlock nods. It's now or never, he decides. Taking a deep breath, his eyes drop to his socked feet.

 

“Listen John, I just want to…”

 

Before Sherlock finished his sentence, John holds up a surprisingly steady hand. “No, don't. Not now. I can't talk about that now. I just want to find this psychopath before he kills again.”

 

Sherlock swallows the lump that has formed. “And after?”

 

John closes his eyes. “I don't know. I just can't go there, not yet.”

 

“Of course.” He nods feeling his heart deflate a little. At least they are in the same room. He finally notices the silence. “We're being monitored.”

 

John glances over his shoulder. “At least the screaming has stopped.” He turns to the wall again. “What are we missing?”

  
What they both miss is Carter’s grin.

 


	70. Chapter 70

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The phone buzzes on the nightstand, bouncing around in place. David Cassidy singing ‘I Think I Love You’ accompanies the buzzing. A slender hand snatches it to bring it under the covers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate it. Again, thanks to all my readers. It means everything that you care about this story even a little bit. I really look forward to each chapter update as it gives me the chance to engage with you. And after a long crappy month, it means a lot. 
> 
> Thank you to the growing team of betas. callie1480, 221bjen, burning_up and fruitbat. I can't be sure if that means I am being pushed to be better or they just raise me up to an acceptable level. Their counsel and friendship means the world to me.

 

The phone buzzes on the nightstand, bouncing around in place. David Cassidy singing ‘I Think I Love You’ accompanies the buzzing. A slender hand snatches it to bring it under the covers.

 

“Yes?” says a sleep roughened voice. “Is there confirmation?” She sighs heavily. “Then get confirmation.”

 

Samantha Moran tosses her phone on the empty side of the bed. Beyond her gauzy white curtains, the day is gray and uninviting. Wishing that she could burrow into her bed, she curses the fact that it is only a Tuesday. With great effort, she pushes the warm sheets off her body to emerge from their cocoon.

 

Why does her day need to start with Mycroft Holmes’ name buzzing in her ear? Actually, it is the little brother, Sherlock, that buzzes. However, Mycroft is always one step behind to clean up his brother’s mess.

 

Samantha flicks on the hot tap to high. While the bathroom fills with steam, she watches her image disappear in the foggy mirror.

 

‘Handsome’ is how she had been described in her younger years. She has watched her skin grey and more lines stretch across her face as time passes.

 

Samantha Moran had been poised to lead, thanks to a father who had been a war hero and an excellent government official. After the best education that money could buy, she had entered into Colonel Moran’s area of expertise - intelligence. There, she had excelled quickly, gaining respect and accolades. Until a young genius had walked through her door.

 

Mycroft Holmes had an air of nobility about him from the very first day. Most men his age wore mismatched suits, but not Mycroft. From day one, he had only been seen in crisp bespoke three piece suits and expensive silk ties. He always walked with an air of superiority and command. Samantha had hated him immediately.

 

Rumour has it that Mycroft had worked at HSBC and Royal Bank of Scotland. What he had done, no one seemed to know. Samantha had wondered if it had been security since he had breezed into intelligence so easily - without any known military background. The mystery of Mycroft Holmes only deepened with his baby brother.

 

Like his older brother, Sherlock had been a certified genius, and had skipped a grade in primary school and again in secondary school. A graduate chemist, he had been poised to revolutionise chemical engineering when drug abuse had derailed him. While he never regained traction in that field, Sherlock still managed to rise up through the rubbish. No matter what trouble he had managed to get into, Mycroft had always been there to clean up his brother’s mess.

 

Samantha had supported the inclination to aid a younger brother in a time of need, until Sherlock had begun to get ‘involved’. When he had turned from chemical engineering to ‘consulting detective’, Sherlock's name popped up all over the radar. Minor breaking and entering offenses were wiped from Sherlock's record. He had seemed above the law. Nothing could stick to the great Sherlock Holmes, thanks to his brother Mycroft and his clean up crew.

 

When Sherlock had apparently leapt to his death, Samantha had been right to be dubious. She was not surprised that Mycroft had aided his disappearance and allowed him to avoid a trial and prison. She was certain that Sherlock had been whisked away to hide in some Swiss chalet until his name had been cleared. Two years later, Sherlock had been able to once again pound the London pavement with his lapdog, John Watson.

 

Samantha steps from the shower to wrap herself in a scratchy towel. The aroma of coffee greets her nose. God bless my brother, she thinks.

 

Sebastian Moran had been a bloody good soldier in the RAF Special Forces. He had led several successful tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. Top al-Qaeda officials had died at his steady hand. As the war wore on, his helmet bore X’s as the bodies piled up.

 

Samantha had never believed the charges against her brother. They were ridiculous. Her little brother had always been soft spoken and gentle. As a child, he was always bringing home stray animals, vowing to care for them. The things that the RAF had accused him of doing were unbelievable, yet caused an icy chill to run down her spine.

 

Fortunately for Sebastian, the evidence had been thin enough to keep him from jail. It had not prevented some time spent in a mental health facility though. He had been treated for severe  PTSD for six months before being  released to the care of his sister.

 

Samantha meticulously styles her short blonde hair with nimble fingers. One hand smooths over the navy blue suit. It's an off the rack from a few years ago, but it still holds up well. She takes great care of her clothes. Not everyone can turn up at work with a brand new tailor made suit.

 

The smell of eggs frying in butter accompany the aroma of rich coffee. Sebastian insists on purchasing exotic blends from a gourmet coffee shop on the other side of the city. She's not certain how his odd jobs here and there afford him such a luxury, but her brother has never been the talkative type.

 

January will mark the one year anniversary of Sebastian’s release from the hospital and the Royal Air Force. His unfortunate dishonourable discharge has not left him many options for employment. His military pension would not have been much, but it would have helped. The conditions of his release state that he is required to live with Samantha for another year. However with therapy and regular meetings with a social worker, he will have the opportunity to find a place of his own and maybe have a family.

 

Sighing heavily, Samantha knows that her opportunity for a husband and children passed years ago. She had given too much to the British government, for nothing - essentially. People like Mycroft will continue to excel, while those who put in twelve hour days are routinely passed over. The British Government didn't care that Samantha had dedicated her entire life to them. And when she asked for leniency for Sebastian, she had been told that laws could not be broken without consequences. Imagine her outrage when Sherlock Holmes had been allowed to kill an innocent man in cold blood and never see the inside of a courtroom. Instead he had been packed up on a private jet to vacation in Russia.

 

Now, little Sherlock might be back on British soil. She had heard murmurs behind closed doors about his mission. No one could get or give a clear answer of his whereabouts. The rumours had floated around the office. Had he been captured? Some had said he had been injured and was currently a vegetable hooked up to a machine. Either of those scenarios would satisfy her. It is the very least a murderer like Sherlock would deserve.

 

Now, there is the new rumour that Sherlock is alive and perfectly healthy, and walking the streets of London. If that is the truth, Samantha needs to bring Magnussen's murderer to justice.

 

Sebastian shuffles from the stove to the table with a plate of fried eggs, sausage and toast.

 

“Good morning, Seb,” Samantha smiles brightly.

 

“Morning, Sam,” he mumbles as he moves back to get his plate. “That's yours.”

 

“Thank you.” She sits in front of her breakfast. “Did you sleep well?”

 

“Not too bad.” He shrugs. “Neighbour’s dog started going off at five in the morning.”

 

“I'll have to speak to her.”

 

They eat with only the sound of cutlery scraping against plates filling the space between them.

 

Sebastian stands suddenly. “I forgot the coffee.” He rushes back to the kitchen.

 

“What is it this time?” She asks.

 

“Ethiopian Yirgacheffe. Very rich and complex.” He pours the dark brown coffee into her mug.

 

“I'll need more milk then?” She quirks an eyebrow.

 

Sebastian offers the hint of a smile. “Blasphemous.”

 

It tastes every bit of deep and complex - just like her brother. She looks up into his expectant face.

 

“Well? Did you like it?” He asks.

 

She nods. “I do. Very rich and indulgent.” Truthfully, the coffee is a bit too bitter for her taste. She manages to keep drinking it without pulling a face.

 

Sebastian hums to himself as he continues to drag his toast through the yolk of his runny egg.

 

“How expensive was this?” She asks.

 

“No matter. It's the least I can do for you putting me up.” He waves his fork dismissively.

 

“I enjoy having you around. You keep me company.” She winks.

 

Sebastian isn't much for conversation or spending nights playing cards. His presence is more of a comfort, to know that she is not completely alone.

 

“What are your plans for the day?” She asks.

 

“I heard there might be extra work at the docks. You know, helping unload shipments.” He covers a piece of sausage with bits of his egg.

 

“Are you working at the bar tonight?”

 

He nods. “I think so. Just barback tonight.”

 

Samantha watches her brother annihilate both eggs and three links of sausage. She can see his brain rotting in front of her. Years ago, she had been certain that he would eventually come work in intelligence with her. It hurts to see him reduced to serving pints to dock workers.

 

“I wish you'd find a pub closer to home. I hate you working late down there. It's a bit dodgy after dark,” she sighs.

 

“War is a lot dodgier,” he smirks.

 

“You know what I mean,” she huffs.

 

“I'll ask around here. Maybe something will open up.” He doesn't look up from his plate, but Sebastian had always avoided eye contact. “How was it?”

 

“Delicious as usual,” she smiles affectionately across the table. “I'll miss you at supper tonight.”

 

“There's soup in the fridge. Made it yesterday.” He mops up the last bit of yellow yolk with the bread crust.

 

“You're too good to me,” Samantha says.

 

“You put a roof over my head.” He pushes away from the table. She watches him hobble into the kitchen with his plate to start the washing.

 

In retrospect, Samantha considers that her life isn't all that bad. Sebastian shows no interest in pairing with a woman. At least not to her knowledge. He's never come from work smelling like perfume, or stayed out all night. Often he's home to fix her a cuppa before she goes to bed.

 

“Anything on at work?” His voice pulls her from her reverie.

 

“The usual. Investigating some chatter on the wires about possible strike at Christmas.” She shrugs lightly. “Nothing has been confirmed.”

 

“Sounds more interesting that hauling kegs.” He leans against the sink and dries a plate.

 

“This weekend I might visit mum and dad,” she offers.

 

Sebastian looks away. “You know I'm not much for cemeteries.”

 

Samantha stands to place her plate in the sink. “I know, but you're always welcome to join me. Maybe we can get lunch at the Inn nearby.”

 

“Maybe,” he replies and dips her plate in the sink.

 

She nudges him gently. “Maybe you'll shave.”

 

Sebastian chuckles. “I look like I'm twelve when I shave. The boys at the dock will give out and call me Babyface.”

 

“Of course. You need to look rough down there. All the more reason to get a job downtown.”

 

He meets her gaze. She swears she can see equal parts boy and haunted soul in eyes so dark they match the bottom of the sea.

 

“I will, Sam.”

 

She gives his arm a tender squeeze. “Mind yourself out there.”

 

He smirks. “You're the one that works with criminals.”

 

“Touché.” She leans over to kiss his cheek. “Thank you for breakfast.”

 

He nods in response. Displays of any affection make him uneasy. It is a shame, Sebastian had been such a loving little boy.

 

Samantha slips her blue wool overcoat on while dreading her day. She glances at her mobile.

 

John Watson has taken up residence at the Holmes estate - Dom

 

Samantha frowns down at her phone.

 

Since when? - S

 

A few weeks now. Coincidence? - Dom

 

Highly unlikely. Find out more - S

 

She slips her phone in the pocket of her coat and hoists the heavy laptop bag over her shoulder. Why would John Watson move into the family home with Mycroft Holmes? She will have to review her notes on Mary Watson’s death for more data. She knows this case has some connection to Sherlock Holmes. After all, that’s when the rumours of his return had begun. But she must be careful. If Mycroft is trying to hide his brother, then he will be watching over his shoulder for any inquiries or surveillance.

 

Samantha slips behind the wheel of her white sedan. Though she gave up smoking years ago, the air inside is still stale and burnt. Bitterly she thinks of how Mycroft Holmes will be arriving to the office today in the back of a plush dark Jaguar. Yes, getting to bottom of what Mycroft might be hiding in his ivory tower is the first item on her agenda today.

  
  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be interested in knowing how this chapter is received. For the first 30 seconds, I'm sure people will think I've updated the wrong fic. But I want you to know that i have given a lot of thought to my killer. Enough to give them their own chapter. I return to the baby steps of John and Sherlock in 71. :)
> 
> Cheers!


	71. Chapter 71

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John squints at the map on the desk. For the past few weeks, he has hunched over Mycroft's monstrous desk to go over reports and files.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I'm halfway through chapter 72, I thought it might be time to put up 71. I am glad that you all liked meeting Sam and Seb. I'm sure we'll seeing them again. 
> 
> Thank you to the pairs of eyes(callie1480, 221bjen, fruitbat, Burning Up and Irene) that look my first mess over and redirect my grammar and prose. I can only blame stilted writing times and my iPhone for so long. 
> 
> Again, thank you to everyone that takes this journey with me. I love your comments - they really make my day.

John squints at the map on the desk. For the past few weeks, he has hunched over Mycroft's monstrous desk to go over reports and files. His eyes must be getting worse, he isn't getting any younger. He glances to his left at the person hovered over files spread out on the rug in front of the fire. Two days ago, John would have never imagined being in the same room as Sherlock, let alone working in companionable harmony. They have stayed away from problematic topics like Sherlock’s second death or the obvious change in his appearance. But John cannot deny the electricity that courses through his body just by being in the same room him. 

John straightens his sore back and blinks a few times. “Is it darker in here?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock remains frozen over several files.

“It seems really dark in here,” John says again.

“Well, the sun does set quite early. Until December 21st, the days will only get shorter. Add to the fact that it is overcast and this room faces east…” Sherlock rattles off without breaking eye contact with Mary’s autopsy report.

John looks over at Sherlock's profile framed by the warm glow of the fire and low lamp light. His chest tightens every time he sees dark curls or he hears the deep rumbling voice. He has to pinch himself in that moment. Sherlock is alive and close enough to touch. And he is still as gorgeous as the day he said goodbye on the tarmac. From this angle, his scars can't even be seen….

John sucks in a breath and glances around the room to the five lamps that give off a soft light. In fact too soft, almost ambient. So hazy that Sherlock's facial expressions are difficult to register - along with specific lines or scars. 

John shakes his head. Did Sherlock replace all the lightbulbs with a lower wattage to hide his face? John wants to ask, to let Sherlock know that he doesn't have to hide from anyone but he can't find any tactful way to approach the subject.

Instead, he stares at the mad man sitting cross legged in front of fireplace with an aching in his chest that resembles acute reflux.

“Da!” Willa cries.

John blinks a few times before turning to see Willa and Greta in the threshold.

“She was asking for you,” Greta says.

Willa reaches her arms toward her father. John walks from behind the desk to collect his little girl. 

“Da,” she buries her head against his shoulder. 

“You smell of cinnamon,” John noses through her curls. 

“We've been baking,” Greta beams. “We made Sherlock's favourite.”

John looks over his shoulder expecting to find that the detective has not moved from his perch over the files. But Sherlock is watching him and Willa with such open awe and vulnerability that John's heart skips unevenly. For the first time in days, Sherlock doesn't turn the right side of his face away. 

“Boo! See Boo!” Willa exclaims and wriggles in John's arms.

“Boo?” John looks to Sherlock.

“It's a nickname of sorts.” He stands and dusts off his trousers. Willa squeals and reaches for him. 

“Boo,” Willa whines.

John shuffles awkwardly to Sherlock. “She wants you.”

“I'm sorry,” Sherlock mumbles as he reaches for the little girl.

John catches his gaze. “Don't be.”

Willa tumbles into Sherlock's arms as if she belongs there. Her little hand pats the scars on his right cheek. “Boo boo. Boo boo.”

Smiling sadly, Sherlock covers her hand with his. “Yes, boo-boo.”

“Boo,” John whispers. He longs to cover Sherlock's hand as well. He knows a part of him is still angry with the lies, but watching this tender moment with his daughter, John wants to envelop them both in his arms. 

“She's quite taken with you,” John smiles.

“The feeling is mutual.” Sherlock's lips curls into a wry smirk. “She's too young to have a good grasp on character analysis.”

“Kids are sharper than you think,” he says. 

As Willa bounces in Sherlock's arms, his phone vibrates against his thigh. Shifting Willa to one hip, he fishes around in his pocket. He glances at the screen before bringing it to his ear.

“Yes Lestrade.” He looks to John. “Yes, we're both here. What?”

Carefully, he hands Willa back to John.

“How long ago? I can be there in fifteen minutes.” Sherlock steals a glance at John. “I'll see if he will come. Send the location. ”

“What's wrong?” John asks as Sherlock swipes at his phone. 

“Another body has been found. Seems to be a new victim,” Sherlock pockets his phone. “Greg wants us to come to the scene.”

“Us?”

Sherlock moves away. “Only if you're interested.”

John frowns. “Of course I'm interested.” He turns to Greta. “Can you give Willa dinner, and maybe put her to bed for me? I'm not certain how long I'll be.”

“Of course, Dr. Watson.” Greta gathers the little girl in her arms. “I made you apples and avocado for dinner.”

“Thank you, Greta.” John pats the curls on Willa's head affectionately. “You be good, little monkey.”

“And you boys be careful,” Greta says pointedly before she whisks Willa away.

“Ready?” John turns to Sherlock.

Sherlock fights to suppress a grin. “God yes.”

\- - - - - - 

 

To John's surprise, it is not dark outside as they slip into the awaiting car. He glances at his wristwatch, only 2:30 in the afternoon. The clouds hang low in the sky with the threat of chilly rain. 

Sherlock had said nothing as he slipped into his coat. He had practically ran to the car. He must miss this, John muses silently. It's only when he is sat beside Sherlock in the car that he notices something different about the way he has tied his scarf. Usually the soft blue cashmere wraps around Sherlock’s neck to keep him warm, or make him look cool. Today, he has tied his scarf around the upturned collar of his coat which just happens to obscure his neck and face. 

John chews on the inside of his cheek anxiously. Is this how Sherlock goes out in public? John wonders how often he has. He tries to recall his conversation with Mycroft. No one close to Sherlock had known he was alive. But then Mycroft mentioned some adversaries at work, that they didn't know where Sherlock had been. He's probably been hidden away for months.

John glances at Sherlock out of the corner of eye. The stoic detective stares out the window. While Sherlock's face might not betray him, his spine and limbs are tense. John searches for anything he can say to ease his friend’s tension. What he really wants to do is to address the elephant in the room. Elephant in the room.

“What was the meaning of the elephant, do you think?” John asks.

“As you stated, the killer is referencing our cases,” Sherlock replies.

“I never wrote that case up on my blog. No one except people at the wedding know about that,” John says.

Sherlock looks to John. “It never made it to the blog? Not even within the banter on your comments page?” 

“I should be hurt that you don't check it.” John remarks in an attempt to lighten the mood. “It is about you, after all. I thought it would maintain your interest.”

Sherlock looks away again. “I haven't been current since last autumn.”

John bites his lip. “Right.”

Not since Mary shot you, he thinks bitterly. The only case they had tackled after the wedding had been Magnussen. John clenches his fist. So much of his life had been stripped away.

“But you never wrote it up?” It's as if Sherlock senses John's mood darken.

“I might have written it up but I never published it because it was a stupid case,” John says.

Sherlock nods. “It was ridiculous.” He turns to John. “So the killer might have been a guest. Do you still have a wedding guest list?”

“At my house, maybe. Do you still have the list in your mind palace?” John asks.

Sherlock shakes his head dismissively. “I deleted it, I'm sure.” His voice is tight.

“I'll have to go back to the house and look.” John would rather set himself on fire then visit the dwelling he once called home. It is a house filled with memories, only a few are truly happy.

“I could go with you, if it would be helpful,” Sherlock offers gently.

John clears his throat. It's too intimate, too soon. “No, I'll have Carter come.” He waves his hand. “I'll bet it's on my laptop or something. I won't even have to go there.”

“That would be best.” Sherlock turns away again.

The sleek Jaguar pulls off the road to a muddy lot where six police cars and a coroner vans’ are parked with lights flashing against the stone bridge.

Sherlock pulls his collar close. “Under a bridge, how terribly common.”

Sherlock fails in sounding unaffected by the throng of police that stand around the victim. 

“Are you alright?” John stops himself from placing a hand on Sherlock's arm.

“I'm not an invalid, John,” Sherlock snaps gruffly. 

John shrinks back. “I didn't mean…”

“You can stop here,” Sherlock orders the driver and opens the door before the car comes to a full stop.

“Sir, wait,” a young agent scrambles from the passenger side.

John sighs heavily to steady his nerves. The potholes in the road to forgiveness can be hard to see and navigate around. Pulling his coat up around his exposed neck, he once again takes off after Sherlock. He practically has to run to catch up. For whatever reason, he doesn't want Sherlock to be alone.

A hush falls over the chattering police as Sherlock approaches. One drops his paper coffee cup. Greg clears his throat and steps forward.

“Thanks for coming.” He extends his hand to Sherlock who shakes it brusquely. “John.”

“Greg.” John nods curtly. “How long ago was the body found?”

“Roughly ninety minutes ago.” Greg holds the tape up for Sherlock and John to duck under.

“Exsanguinated like the others?” Sherlock keeps his eyes on the body.

“I think so. I was waiting for you before we turned him over,” Greg says.

“His skin is sallow and appears rubbery,” John inches closer. “May I?”

“Of course.” “Yes.” Sherlock and Greg answer simultaneously.

Careful to not upset any evidence, John walks around the body. If this is another victim of their killer, he or Sherlock should have some connection. John is relieved that he doesn't recognise the man immediately. As he crossed the lot, all the people in John's world had flashed before his eyes. 

“He's been dead for at least twelve hours.” John glances around at the ground surrounding the body. “No foot prints? How can that be?”

“Thrown from the bridge?” Greg looks up.

Sherlock crouches beside the victim. “Trajectory is wrong. If he'd been tossed from the bridge, he could have never landed underneath it, unless he crawled which did not happen. There's no marks from a body being dragged nor dragging itself. No, the killer used something to cover up his tracks. No footprints but the dirt has been recently disturbed.”

John can't help but gaze at Sherlock while he examines everything. For the first time in over a year, things seem right. He knows it's all gone to shit in reality but for the moment, it's okay. Those razor sharp eyes darting across the naked body, surveying the surrounding area. The low humming as Sherlock jots down notes. John had been so focused on watching the detective work that he had not heard the muttering and whispers from the police loafing around. 

Sherlock must notice, as suddenly his shoulders hunch and he ducks the right side of his face. John’s hands curl into tight fists, but he knows to bark at anyone now will only draw attention that Sherlock does not need. 

“Are you ready to flip the body, Sherlock?” John squats beside him so close he can see Sherlock’s breath quicken in the cold air. 

Sherlock looks surprised to see John so close. They hold a gaze for what feels like eternity when in reality is only ten seconds. Sherlock sniffs and blinks a few times before standing ramrod straight. 

“Yes, if someone with gloves would be so kind,” he announces with authority to no one in particular.

“Go on,” Greg motions to three young policemen. 

Sherlock steps back to give them room, and John moves beside him.

“Does he look familiar to you?” John asks.

“I've only seen the back of his head, bare buttocks and back. I can say he does not look familiar based on that.” Sherlock's eyes never leave the body.

Inappropriate heat floods John's belly. He's not certain if Sherlock had meant it to sound as salacious as where John's mind had gone. He feels oddly aroused and jealous - neither emotion is proper or justifiable.

“Right,” he mumbles and shifts his weight to will away the images of Sherlock looking at anyone in that angle in a sexual act.

“Don't touch that body!” A man screeches from a few odds away.

“For God’s sake,” Sherlock utters contemptuously. “Not bloody Anderson.”

It is truly the last thing Sherlock needs, even if Anderson had tried to prove himself an ally at one time.

“Sherlock!” Anderson exclaims. “I haven't seen you since…” The smiles slips from his face when he comes around to grab Sherlock’s hand. “Oh, I'm sorry. I had no idea.”

“No one did. That was the point.” Sherlock turns away to glare in Greg's direction.

“Stand down, Anderson. I don't need you yet.” Greg barks.

John is afraid to even steal a glance at Sherlock. If his face shows any trace of hurt or emotion, John knows that he will grasp Anderson around the neck and shove his face in the dirt. Why does he feel so protective of a man he couldn't bring himself to speak to just days before? 

Carefully, the victim is rolled to his back. John gasps, while Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“Friend of yours?” He asks with an edge to his voice.

“He doesn't look familiar to you?” John asks. “Do you remember Henry?” Nothing registers on Sherlock's face. “Hound of Baskerville?”

“The smoker who saw a monstrous dog?” Sherlock frowns.

“We all saw it, Sherlock.”

“Only because of the hallucinogenic gas.” Sherlock shrugs dismissively. He looks back to the victim. “You're sure it's him?”

“Do you delete everyone?” John asks.

He turns to John slowly and regards him for a few seconds. Green eyes sweep over him from head to toe. “Not everyone.”

John holds his breath for a count of five to clear his brain of Sherlock's stares, voice, scent. 

“It's him. I know it.” John shuffles forward. “This one was written up on the blog.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock hums deep in thought. “Did you name him?”

“Just his first name. What's he doing in London?” John asks.

“I don't know. Not yet.” Sherlock produces the magnifying glass and hovers over Henry’s body.

Over his shoulder, John can hear Anderson ask Greg, “What happened to him?”

“It's not why you're here. If you can't be professional, I'm happy to dismiss you again,” Greg warns.

“I'm only asking out of concern, Greg,” Anderson replies.

“That's Inspector Lestrade,” Greg snaps.

“I want Dr. Ian ready to assist with the autopsy,” Sherlock announces.

“I-I was supposed to lead,” Anderson whines.

“Make certain Dr. Ian is there.” Sherlock doesn't bother to meet Anderson’s eye.

“Are we done?” John asks with surprise.

“Are you going to contribute or just stand there and gawk like everyone else?” Sherlock snaps.

John bites his lip. He knows this outburst is coming from pain, but he wants to punch Sherlock in the face. 

“I figured that you sorted everything out,”John huffs.

“We'll know more when we perform the autopsy. The light is fading and there are too many distractions.” Sherlock nods in the direction of Anderson.

“Fine, let's go to Bart’s then.” Suddenly John feels tired. He doesn't want to hover over Henry’s body or observe anything. What he wants is a nap in a warm bed.

Sherlock nods once and stalks back to the awaiting car. 

“We'll see you at Bart’s,” John says as he passes Greg. He pauses beside Anderson. “And you need to learn to keep your fucking mouth shut.”

Anderson is startled. “I didn't mean anything….”

John doesn't wait for apologies or explanations, he takes off after Sherlock who is half way to the car.

The young agent is panting as he holds the back door open for the detective. “Sir, you can't run off like that. What if?”

Sherlock cuts him off. “I think I'm perfectly safe among a throng of the Yard’s finest.”

“Not sure they're the finest,” John mutters as he slips into the back seat. He turns his head to see Sherlock smirk.

“When we get home, I'll need to analyse this.” He pulls a bag of dirt from his coat.

“Did you take evidence?” John asks.

“You ask like it's the first time I've done it,” Sherlock scoffs and pockets the dirt again. 

John chuckles and shakes his head. Five years, one marriage, endless cases, one baby and two ‘deaths’ later, Sherlock is still the same insufferable arsehole John had fallen in love with. He freezes his brain at that very thought. Yes, he had loved Sherlock- even after his supposed death. And now? Well, it's a bit more complicated. They haven't dealt with Mike and David yet. Sherlock is the same, but he has new challenges. How do they affect him? Then of course, does Sherlock still mean those words he wrote possibly a year ago? At times, John senses it emanating from Sherlock in a look or just the tender way he says ‘John’. Though it said casually, John swears he can the feel the weight behind it. 

“So after the autopsy, then?” John asks.

“We go home. I have this to analyse and you have a little girl to tuck up in bed.”

“Greta can certainly handle that,” John shrugs.

Sherlock only tilts his head in his direction. “But that's not the point. She is surrounded by strangers. She still needs her father.”

“I wouldn't call you and Greta strangers now.”

Sherlock's lips purse tightly. His gaze drops to his lap. “I apologise for overstepping boundaries. It seems I still have trouble realising them.”

“No, it's fine,” John lays a hand on Sherlock's arm and squeezes gently. “I never thought a child would ever interest you.”

Sherlock turns his full attention and face to him. “She's part of you, and that will always interest me.”

If John could have a quid for every intense moment between them lately, he could go to the fancy cafe around the corner from the clinic and buy the biggest, fanciest latte on the menu - for half his staff. He holds his breath for at least fifteen seconds, just to clear his fuzzy head. His head, heart and other parts are warring within. For a half second, he considers what it would be like to lean forward and press his lips to Sherlock's. But that would only complicate a complicated situation further. They need clear heads to solve such a high stakes case. 

“Round the back again?” The driver asks.

Sherlock blinks and leans back. John hadn't even noticed that he had moved forward. He has been too fixated on parted full lips. 

“The loading dock is fine.” Sherlock instructs.

“This is how you slipped in for autopsies,” John says.

“Under the cover of darkness and many agents, yes. I was here to consult and then go home.” Sherlock tightens his scarf around his neck.

John hand clenches involuntarily. “How many times?”

“Two, maybe three times at most. You were there for the last one.” 

“Right,” John says tightly. He grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches. So many conflicting emotions in one fifteen minute car ride. 

“I'm sorry,” Sherlock whispers.

John looks over to his eyes closed tight and a look of acute pain furrowed on his brow.

“Later. Let's get this done first, okay?” John's voice cracks.

One tight nod, and Sherlock whisks out of car.


	72. Chapter 72

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What does Lazarus mean?” John asks the moment the car door closes.
> 
> Sherlock shakes the mist from his hair. “The story of the Lazarus from the New Testament?”
> 
> “I know that, but what does it mean to us?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good afternoon everyone. This *might* be the last update for this year. I have started 73, and I want to get it up before Christmas, but with everyone's crazy schedules, it might be impossible. Plus, i love Christmas so much, I have written at least one Christmas ficlet apart for this. I have another planned as well. 
> 
> As always, many thanks and adoration on all my betas. They take time away from their own lives and writing to look my junk over and push me to make it readable for you. 221BJen, Callie1480, Fruitbat, Irene and Burning Up - I owe you a mountain of gratitude. 
> 
> And to my readers, thank you for commenting, reading and enjoying. I hope each one of you has a pleasant, healthy and safe holiday. Bless.

“What does Lazarus mean?” John asks the moment the car door closes.

Sherlock shakes the mist from his hair. “The story of the Lazarus from the New Testament?”

“I know that, but what does it mean to us?” 

They had hurried through a cold rain to the warm car waiting outside Bart’s. It had been John’s first autopsy in the case, and he had been clearly disturbed to see the evidence up close, not just in pictures tacked to a wall. 

“Well,” Sherlock glances out the rain streaked windows. “I presume it could have several meanings. The story of Lazarus tells of Jesus resurrecting a man from the dead. It could be a reference to my return from death a few years ago.”

He hates to bring up a subject that is still a source of tension between him and John. While there had been acceptance, he still sees John's mouth tighten and twitch.

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “Or it could reference my recent situation, escaping death again.”

“And being brought back to life,” John nods thoughtfully. “Does he consider himself Jesus? You know, bringing you back to life?”

Sherlock hopes that is the message the killer is trying to convey.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock says.

John turns his body to face him. “If this case hadn't come along, what would have happened?”

Sherlock's mouth goes dry. “What do you mean?”

“Where would you be? I mean, Mycroft said you only recently returned to London and it was because of this.” 

Sherlock is grateful for the darkness in the back of the car. He can't see the tiny lines of worry or disappointment that might have appeared on John’s face. In turn, Sherlock can hide his own feelings, as well as his scars. He has tried to stay in shadow or keep John at his right, always his right. Even though as Mike, John did not seem to have an issues with David's scars, Sherlock isn't certain how John feels about Sherlock’s scars. If he happened to look up and see disgust or worse, pity on the doctor’s face, it would break Sherlock's still aching heart. No, it is much better to keep his left side out of sight.

Sherlock shrugs, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “I'd still be up north. Mycroft had offered Australia or America as a place to start anew.”

“He mentioned that.” Bitterness edges into John's tone. “Have you thought about still doing that?”

Sherlock considers the question for the moment. Before all this began, running away would have been difficult but not impossible. Now, he can't leave the possibility of a friendship with John. He suspects that whatever attraction his dear friend might have harboured in the past might be gone. After all, Sherlock is damaged now, and he has lied to John, again. Their relationship is so tenuous at present that he cannot bring himself to mention David and Mike. He suspects that John might have some clue because ‘Mike’ has been quiet since the night he moved into Mycroft's house. Sherlock has deduced that it comes down to one of two things. One, John feels uncomfortable about engaging in any relationship while residing in the same house as Sherlock. Or two, John knows that Sherlock is David. He suspects that it is the latter. What he cannot figure out is how John might know and if Mycroft is responsible. His brother has sworn that he had broken no confidences, but Sherlock doesn't trust Mycroft.

“It wasn't an attractive offer when I was trying not to be Sherlock. It's less appealing now,” Sherlock finally replies.

John nods and turns his eyes to the window. Though Sherlock doesn't look forward to the discussion that threatens to explode between them, at least he would know what's ticking inside John's brain. While most people are terribly simple minded, including John at times, Sherlock cannot read him. His voice can be tender one moment before iciness chills the warmth. John's face can change in an instant with warm eyes searching Sherlock's face before they turn as dark as a stormy ocean. It fascinates and infuriates Sherlock.

“So Lazarus,” John murmurs. “Luckily the passage was placed posthumously.”

“Over the heart.” Sherlock rubs his chin. 

“I don't understand what the clues are pointing toward. They only state ‘these are cases John and Sherlock worked on’ but nothing makes sense beyond that,” John says.

“He's telling a story. A poorly written story. The first few victims were about getting our attention. It's why he chose Mary. You weren't paying attention.” Sherlock heart starts to race with excitement. 

“Me?” John rounds on him.

“Yes, it's why he chose her! To get your attention. But you weren't told about the clue. Think, the map. Westminster? What does that remind you of?” Sherlock twists to face John.

John's eyes dart from outside to Sherlock to the back of the driver’s head. 

“Parliament?” Then his eyes light up like Christmas. “The bomb on the Tube car! When you were an utter cock to get me to forgive you for the not being dead thing!”

“Yes!” Sherlock exclaims with delight. He tempers his joy when John scowls. “I will never stop feeling sorry for that.”

John waves his hand. “Fine, good. So you think he knew you were alive, and that I didn't know.”

Sherlock frowns. That possibility is disturbing at best. “I have no idea how he'd know that. How could he?” He shakes his head. “If that is true, then he chose Stamford for a reason.”

“What reason would he have to murder a mutual friend?” But John knows the answer as soon as he poses the question.

“Mike Stamford introduced us,” Sherlock says thoughtfully.

“And he brought us together again,” John's voice is soft as a whisper.

“That he did.” The air in the car changes and crackles with electricity. 

They hold a gaze that twists Sherlock's insides. He wants to fling himself across John's lap and beg forgiveness. He longs to hear that John will never leave his side because he cannot bear that absence again. After two trips around the world, Sherlock only wants a quiet life in London with the people he holds most dear. 

John is the first to look away. “So, if everything leading to Mary and Mike was just about getting our attention, what is he trying to say now? Lazarus was not really a case like the others.”

“Why did he place it over Henry’s heart?” Sherlock rests his steepled fingers on the bridge of his nose. 

“Sentiment?” John offers.

“Resurrection of the heart? Life support?” Sherlock closes his eyes to walk through his mind. What is the story the killer is trying to tell and could it help to identify the next victim?

It's so obvious that Sherlock decides a killer so cunning to be able to snatch victims off the street and hold them for several days wouldn't be so simple as that.

“But why Henry? If the killer was getting closer to people we care about…” John bites his lip.

Sherlock wishes he could tell John to shut up, because his voice is cutting through all the useful thoughts in his mind palace. Years ago, he wouldn't have given that order a second thought, he would have just blurted it out and then ignored John's strop. Things between them are too delicate to start barking orders. Plus, he has longed for John's voice in his ears for so many months. He doesn't want to silence it now.

Sherlock opens his eyes. “People dear to us are being guarded. He has to be aware of that. If he makes a move for Mrs. Hudson or Greg, he could be caught. He's not ready for that.”

“I'm ready for that,” John says.

Though Sherlock hates the threat lurking in London, he knows that when the case is over, John might be gone. No more bee toys, or rocking chair. The bottles cluttering the kitchen will disappear and the deafening silence will replace a child's squeal of joy. 

“So, what's our next move?” John asks.

“I need to analyse this dirt. You need to find the wedding guest list.” Sherlock taps his fingertips on his bottom lip. Out of the corner of his eye, he swears he see John watching, intently. “We also need to sort which cases were on your blog. How does he know about the elephant in the room? How did he know about Henry?”

“Maybe the elephant is not about the case,” John suggests.

Sherlock frowns. “A clue from a past case is always hidden somewhere in the victim.”

“But Lazarus wasn't a case. He's definitely trying to convey a message, but the elephant in the room is something everyone knows but no one…”

“Yes, I am aware of the meaning,” Sherlock snaps and immediately regrets when John’s brow furrows. He clears his throat before starting to speak. “It's something to consider. It seems odd to change the narrative.” 

John shrugs. “I'm just tossing out theories.”

“Perhaps it is both. A case that fits his story.”

“You're the elephant?” John suggests. “But how would he know you're alive. And why us? Or you?”

“Sadly, we have more questions.” Sherlock's eyes flicker. “But those questions are a start.”

“Sir, we're here,” the agent cranes his neck to the back of the car.

Sherlock peers out the window to see the Holmes manor lit up with white Christmas lights and green wreaths with red velvet bows.

“Greta must have made an executive decision on this,” Sherlock muses.

“I think it's nice,” John nudges Sherlock before he slips out of the car.

The air is crisp with the scent of pine and evergreen. Truthfully, Sherlock has never seen the manor look so warm and inviting. He considers the warm glow before charging to the door. 

As he is slipping his coat from his shoulders, Mycroft appears in the threshold of the study with his arms crossed.

“I heard you had quite an outing today,” he purses his lips.

“If you want to call it that.” Sherlock hangs his coat on the hook beside the door.

“Hello, Mycroft,” John says. “I see you've been decorating.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Hardly." His face hardens instantly. "Why did you let Sherlock go the crime scene?”

John tosses his head back in a burst of raucous laughter, which earns a set of raised eyebrows.

“'Let',” John quotes with his fingers. “Like anyone allows Sherlock do anything. Like he ever asks permission.” John still chuckles as he removes his jacket to hang beside Sherlock’s.

Sherlock grins and follows John into the study where he is transferring notes from the crime scene to the evidence wall.

“Sherlock, you don't understand what you've done. No one knew you were home. I have been constructing your re-entry to England and your work.” Mycroft steps in front of Sherlock.

“I was under the impression that the cat was out of the bag with Mrs. Hudson.”

“I have worked tirelessly to keep you safe and out of prison,” Mycroft says.

Sherlock points to the scars on his face. “This isn't enough? Your precious government won't pardon me after I very nearly gave them my life?”

Mycroft shifts his weight uncomfortably. The dance draws John’s attention. 

“As I have explained, we,” Mycroft motions between himself and Sherlock, “have enemies. You've been instrumental in bringing down highly organised criminal networks. I have envious colleagues who are just waiting for any opportunity to ruin me, using you if they must. I have kept your whereabouts unknown. I've fed them believable reports. And then you turn up at a high profile crime scene.”

“I didn't realise I was still being kept in a tower, now that John knows. You failed to make that clear,” Sherlock retorts. “After all, it was Greggy that called me. You failed to mention that detail to him as well!”

Mycroft’s eyes shoot directly to where John looks up from his small leather bound notebook. His lips mouth ‘Greggy’ as a question. 

“This is my mistake,” Mycroft bristles. “I guess I should have written signs all over the house. ‘Sherlock you are still dead’!”

It's amusing to watch Mycroft slowly unravel, even if it's at the expense of Sherlock’s safety. He doesn't have time to investigate why his brother fears these so-called enemies, but something has Mycroft uneasy.

“So, am I supposed to stay locked up in here?” Sherlock wildly gestures around the study. “You know I'm going mad. I cannot solve a bloody thing being imprisoned!”

Mycroft scoffs, “This is hardly a prison, Sherlock. Stop being melodramatic.”

“You're the one that flew off the handle when he went out in broad daylight,” John offers.

Sherlock turns to beam at his best friend, his only true love. If things weren’t tense and off, he would stride over to cup this man’s face and kiss him thoroughly to make him boneless in Sherlock's arms. 

The front door opens, and John’s easy grin hardens quickly into a defensive scowl while his body goes rigid and alert. Always the soldier.

“Jesus, Mycroft, what was the bloody emergency?” Greg’s face is flushed red.

“Did you call my brother to a crime scene?” He stalks over.

“Yes, it wasn't just any crime. We need to catch this guy and I need him,” Greg points at Sherlock, “to see scenes and be a real part of this investigation. Looking at this wall isn't enough.”

“We have discussed the issues of Sherlock going public too soon,” Mycroft says.

“John knows! Surprise over!” Greg shrugs emphatically.

Mycroft shakes his head. “It's more than that.”

“You won't talk about that with me,” Greg shoots back.

It is sounding less about Sherlock and more like a lovers spat. Greg sounds almost hurt. Mycroft is out of his depth, pacing in front of the fireplace and shaking his head. John’s guard has dropped, and now his gaze switches between Mycroft and Greg with a deepening crease in his brow.

“Was there any press around?” Mycroft asks quietly.

“No, we've worked hard to keep them away. So far, there's been no connection to John and Sherlock.” 

Sighing, Mycroft massages his temples.

“You never told me not to call him, Mycroft,” Greg says, almost tenderly.

Sherlock sees questions popping in John’s mind. Mycroft and Greg have been very clandestine since John had moved in. At times, he wasn't even certain they were still...involved. 

“I know you need him, you need both of them at full capacity. I just need to manage this.” Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You need to work quickly, Mycroft. I'll be leaving the house tomorrow,” Sherlock announces.

“You can't follow a single simple instruction.” Mycroft shakes his head.

“You've kept him shut up for months!” John turns from the evidence wall. “Whether it's for his own good, you've kept him caged. Leads grow cold, and I agree, we need to get out there and question people while we can. There's a victim in the morgue, and that means our killer is stalking his next victim!”

With a tight nod, Mycroft turns to leave. “I'll make some calls.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmurs to John.

“For what?”

“Defending me. You did it earlier today and just now.” Sherlock slips his hands into his trouser pockets and walks to the window.

Greg leaves the room, presumably to find Mycroft.

John watches after him for a second before joining Sherlock by the window.

“What exactly is going on between Greg and your brother?”

A smirk tugs at Sherlock's lips. “You don't want to know, trust me.”

John’s eyes pop open. “No….not possible.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. “Because Greg was married to a woman?”

Pink patches break out on John’s cheeks. “No, I mean, yes. I never thought…” He pauses and furrows his brow as he carefully chooses his next words, “it's just...it’s Mycroft. I never thought…”

“I don't think he ever did.” Sherlock has no interest in discussing Mycroft and Greg’s involvement. It's clear that John has no idea that Sherlock knows for a fact that he is bisexual. Yes, John had been a married man when he engaged in scorching internet sex with another man. Sherlock's mouth waters thinking of the photo hidden deep within his phone of John’s flushed cock. He feels his cheeks warm just standing inches from it, concealed by denim. 

Sherlock clears his throat and stalks across the room to stand before the evidence wall. “You should check on Willa.”

“You don't want my help here?” John sounds almost hurt.

“Of course I do, but I realise you have more pressing priorities.” He wills his face to drain of colour. 

“Okay, um, thanks.” John scratches the back of his neck, then offers a small smile. “I never imagined you’d be so accommodating.”

Sherlock feels a lump forming in his throat. He wants to fall to his knees and confess everything as if it were a prayer. He longs to tell him that every night he tosses and turns just knowing that John is only one floor away. The crushing weight of love makes it difficult to breathe some days. And the only other human being on Earth who means as much to him as John is Willa. 

Other confessions would be dark and needy, filled with lust and hunger. Sherlock has not touched himself in weeks, not since the night of Mary’s autopsy when John accidentally revealed himself as Mike. What once had been liberating and beautiful, feels complicated and wrong - like taking advantage. 

Sherlock shrugs as casually as he can manage while feeling beads of sweat collect on his forehead. “I guess I am capable of surprises.”

“Sherlock, you are never short of those,” John says dryly before leaving the study.

Once John is gone, Sherlock wipes his brow with the cuff of his sleeve. 

“Get ahold of yourself, Holmes,” he mutters angrily to himself.

Reading John’s newly added notes, he files them in his mind palace for later. He can't help his mind crawling to less favourable places, like the room he keeps John's smile and tender voice. Or the wing he where locks his fantasies - the one where he joins John and Willa to become a family.

“You are a ridiculous man,” he curses under his breath.

With a deep breath filling his lungs till they burn, he washes away the afternoon from his mind. The stares, the whispers. They had been difficult to ignore. It had felt good to have John by his side, but John had felt the need to protect him. Pity. 

Sherlock's stomach turns. He longs for something to dull the buzzing in his brain. He can't concentrate with John's scent lingering in the study and a picture of John's cock taunting him from his mobile.

“Dirt!” He gasps and rushes to his coat to retrieve the bag of dirt from the crime scene. This will calm all the voices and thoughts. And his microscope is in his room. It's a perfect place to clear his mind and escape all these annoying emotions.

Sherlock scrambles up the stairs to take refuge in his room for the night.


	73. Chapter 73

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John folds the newspaper on his lap with disgust. It hasn't taken the press long to print stories about Sherlock's scars. With the detective no longer hiding in the shadows, it had been inevitable. Eight similar murders in London, every journalist had taken a definite interest in the ‘Vampire Murders’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season. Again, thanks to cheerleading, support and expert editing from callie4180, 221Bjen and burning_up_. You keep me right.
> 
> Thank you to all my readers and I am truly sorry that it has taken this long to update. I was a little sidetracked by posting a few Christmas themed one-shots. Thank you for your comments and for staying with me. They really, really mean everything and keep my upright on a 'listing' day. 
> 
> I have the next two chapters planned. The next one will be short, but I have Christmas Eve to write, and that could be a bit on the long side. Cheers everyone!

John folds the newspaper on his lap with disgust. It hasn't taken the press long to print stories about Sherlock's scars. With the detective no longer hiding in the shadows, it had been inevitable. Eight similar murders in London, every journalist had taken a definite interest in the ‘Vampire Murders’. John wonders who the ‘source close to the investigation’ could be, but when Greg finds out, heads will roll down the central corridor of the Met. 

While John has seen the press turn on Sherlock before, he thought that they might have been more delicate. After all, it's not like the detective had been found guilty of murder or being a fraud. No one had come forward with lascivious sex stories - lately. 

John’s stomach had turned when he saw the headlines. Tabloids had splashed headlines like ‘What Happened to Sherlock Holmes?’ ‘Dashing Detective Disfigured Mysteriously’ and ‘Scarred Detective to Investigate Vampire Murders’ over their front pages. If the headlines weren't bad enough, the articles were disgusting. Adjectives like dashing and brilliant had been replaced with scarred, damaged, and disfigured. John wants to march into every editor’s office and punch them for debasing Sherlock so cruelly. As if a man’s self worth is based on his physical features. Have they forgotten about the man who nearly took down Moriarty’s crime web on his own? Or the countless people he has found, the murders incarcerated? Who knows how many lives had been saved when he killed Charles Magnussen? Sherlock is not just a man with burns on his body; he is a man who has lived through ages of suffering, pain and loss. With these sensationalist headlines, the world will only see the scars.

John knows that Sherlock tries to hide them by standing in shadow, standing always on the right side and lowering the wattage of all the lightbulbs. However when he's with Willa, he forgets about them, and John sees Sherlock again. Yet, it's a different Sherlock who is a little wiser and softer. He smiles easily at the baby in his arms. For a moment, he forgets to hide and gives John his full attention.

John had called Mycroft the moment he had learned of the newspapers. They couldn't always shield Sherlock from hateful headlines, but John had vowed to try his damnedest. Mycroft had insisted that Sherlock would be busy with the new toxicology reports from the last two victims. It had settled John's concern a little.

As the car pulls up to the house, John folds the papers and shoves them in between some files in his briefcase. The new toxicology reports mean a long night for everyone involved. John sees several cups of coffee in his future. 

“Thank you, Howard,” John says as he exits the car.

He pauses to look up at the large house before him. Are those candles in the windows? John chuckles to himself. Mycroft is clearly losing the war against Christmas. Greta is certainly getting her way.

Life at the Holmes Manor had been feeling more normal, almost routine. In the morning, John would dress Willa and bring her to Greta for breakfast. After eating a hearty fry-up, he would shower and get ready for work. Greta would always pack him a delicious lunch, and off he would go. 

In the evening, John would drop his briefcase by the door and hang his jacket beside Sherlock's coat - just like years before. Sometimes, the mad genius would be in the study and John would join him to learn what new things had been discovered. Other times, he would rush to see Willa. 

Tonight, he hears Sherlock first.

“Oh for God’s sake! How difficult could this be, even for you.”

“No one does it like this. No one,” Greg chimes in.

“Well, they should,” Sherlock huffs.

John braces himself for whatever is about to greet him.

In the corner of the study is the largest pine tree he's seen inside. The halo of the tree top angel is bent against the ceiling. Greg stands on a ladder with a crystal ornament in his hand while Sherlock is bent over what look like architect’s plans spread out on the floor.

“What is this?” John asks.

Sherlock jumps and hops to his feet. “Why are you home early?”

“This is the time I always come home.” John glances over Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock turns to Greg. “What time is it?”

“Half six. What is all this?” John asks.

“Can you seriously not deduce?” Sherlock drops back to the floor over the sketches. “It was, however, meant to be finished by now.” He looks at Greg. “Right, Lestrade?”

“If you hadn't been so anal about the placement of the bloody lights, we might have finished in time,” Greg grumbled and hooks the ornament on a branch.

“You loathe Christmas,” John says. “Wait, are those plans for the Christmas tree?”

“Oh, he mapped out every light and ornament. Called me and said it was urgent. I thought you'd had a break in the case.” Greg shakes his head.

Sherlock chews on his lower lip. He won't meet John's gaze.

“What's this about?” He crouches beside Sherlock.

“It's her first Christmas,” he replies quickly.

“Who? Willa?” John wishes he could throw his arms around Sherlock, but they have been very conscious of personal space. “I'm not certain she'd notice the difference.”

“Still. It's her first and she should have a tree,” Sherlock sniffs.

John looks over at monstrous evergreen. Leave it to Sherlock to overdo something simple like a Christmas tree. It's ridiculous but that's the sort of thing he loves about Sherlock. 

John takes a step back. He had meant ‘loved’ as in that he loved about Sherlock. Past tense, not currently, or activity loving. He catches a glimpse of dark curls bent over elaborate plans for just a Christmas tree. For Willa and by extension, for him. Sherlock had wanted them to feel comfortable and at home. He only wanted to make John's daughter happy.

All the air leaves the room. John is certain that he's having a panic attack. He's not sure why. Is it the realisation that despite everything and after all the lies that he still loves Sherlock as completely as he did before? No, he steels himself. He cannot go down that road again. He watches Sherlock choreograph the placement of each ornament. 

Greg hands him a small brown box. “This came by post today.”

John frowns. “A gift?”

Greg gives a subtle nod to Sherlock. “He ordered it.”

The box had been opened. John pushes aside the brown paper to reveal a silver and crystal rattle to hang on the tree. Engraved on a silver tag attached is Willa’s First Christmas with the year on the opposite side.

“He ordered this?” John whispers, gently touching the ornament.

Greg only nods and goes back to hanging glass ornaments on the lower boughs. 

This time is different, John thinks. He has evidence, written in fact, that Sherlock loves him. Granted, those had been words from a dying man. One who had not been burned or injured. John looks at the perfect ornament nestled in the plain brown box and wonders if those words still live within Sherlock. And what if they do?

“Oh,” Sherlock looks over his shoulder to see John gazing into the box. “I wasn't sure if you had any. If you have some back at home, I mean, your house…”

Slowly, John shakes his head but his eyes stay on the ornament. “No, we...that is she...you know...Mary...never bought that stuff. All I have is ‘married’ stuff.” He sniffs and meets Sherlock's gaze. “And that doesn't mean anything now.”

John thinks to when Mary found the letter and their last conversation. He remembers the plans he had to meet a man with the sole intent of being intimate- and that man is just feet from him now. No, he needs nothing from that house. John licks his lips. He wants to say something --just to unload the weight pressing down on his chest. 

Sherlock stands and tilts his head. With a furrowed brow, “John…”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft calls from the front door. He stalks into the study and comes to a skid when he looks in the corner. “Oh for heaven’s sake. What is this?”

“I know it's been an age since we've had one. Perhaps you deleted them from your mind,” Sherlock’s eyes flick from John to his brother who looms in the doorway.

“I'm not the one who feels the need to delete things.” Mycroft cocks his head. “Gregory, you helped?”

Greg nods. “I did. It's actually a good idea, to be honest. We've been filled with gloom lately. Bit of holiday cheer won't kill the Holmes men.”

Mycroft strips off his brown leather gloves. “Mother will be glad to see it.”

Sherlock whirls around. “They're back?”

“Our parents return Christmas Eve morning. And then they will stay here for the holidays,” Mycroft announces.

“Christ, Mycroft, you should have left me for dead!” Sherlock flounces to one of the chairs in front of the hearth and throws himself down with dramatic flair.

John clears his throat violently. “Don't ever say that.”

Sherlock’s spine straightens at the angry tone of John's voice. He nods contritely. “I'm sorry.”

“I know you don't really mean it, but you need to actually think before you speak...like an overwrought teenager,” John clenches his left hand. 

“He is an overwrought teenager,” Mycroft muses lightly.

John rounds on him. “Because you treat him like one! You make every decision for him. No wonder he has the emotional maturity of an adolescent.”

“I'm right here!” Sherlock shouts.

Greg comes down from the ladder. “Everyone stop! It sounds like trimming the tree when I was married. Sherlock, suck it up. They're your parents. It's one ruddy week.” He turns on John. “You…” He sees John's jaw clench. “Have a point.” He walks to Mycroft. “And John is right. I know Sherlock is irresponsible, but you have to step back and let them...I mean him...figure it out.”

Mycroft holds Greg’s gaze for a moment before he nods quietly and removes his coat. Greg returns to the ladder, while John and Sherlock stare anywhere but at one another.

Mycroft sinks into the chair across from Sherlock and leans forward. “Why didn't you tell me about Lazarus?” He asks wearily. 

Sherlock frowns. “Did Greg tell you?”

Mycroft’s smile never reaches his eyes. “Sherlock, do you really believe I need Gregory to tell me what is inside evidence files?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Okay, fine. Yes, there was a passage from John...the story of Lazarus.”

John looks up. “That was in the book of John?”

Sherlock nods. “Yes.”

“Don't suppose that was coincidence,” John says.

“There is no such thing as coincidence,” Sherlock says.

“The universe is rarely so lazy,” Mycroft echoes.

John turns to Greg. “In case you didn't believe they were brothers.”

“Sherlock, you should have told me,” Mycroft reprimands.

“You think it means that?” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Isn't that reaching, even for you?”

“Why, brother mine? What was your observation?” Mycroft settles back in the chair to peer at his little brother over steepled fingers. 

“Isn't it obvious? You had my friends believe I was dead. I have seemingly risen from the dead. These murders have forced me back to life in the killer's eyes.” Sherlock gestures widely.

“And the fall? It has nothing to do with that?” Mycroft asks.

Sherlock's eyes darken. “How could it? How could anyone know about that?”

“Our killer is clever. Maybe even has the ability to hack computers or phones,” Mycroft says gravely.

Sherlock turns white. “No, that can't...no.”

“It really escaped your imagination?” Mycroft cocks an eyebrow.

John steps between the chairs. “What's this about? Sherlock, you've gone pale.”

“On the roof with Moriarty, we had planned for several outcomes - each with its own code word.” Sherlock stares into the fire.

“Lazarus?” John cocks his head. 

“Yes,” Mycroft replies.

“You think the clue has to do with that?” John turns to Mycroft.

“We have to accept that the impossible is possible.” Mycroft’s eyes do not leave Sherlock.

“How many people knew?” John places a hand on the back of Sherlock's chair. 

“Maybe four. Myself, Sherlock, Anthea and Ms. Hooper.”

John casts a downward glance at Sherlock who braces his forehead against his hand and stares at the rug in front of the fireplace. The topic of Sherlock's death will always be a landmine for them. While Sherlock will always feel guilty, a part of John cannot let go of the betrayal. Even though he knows it was done to save lives, the fact that his best friend will not even share his experiences with John still stings. Now, they have this, the recent ‘death’ to work through.

It suddenly dawns on John that Sherlock is using his hand to shield his scarred face. John wants to tell him that he's a beautiful and brilliant man, not damaged flesh. That he still cares for him, not out of pity, but out of the pure love that still flourishes between them.

Instead, he gives Sherlock some space and moves away. He misses the lack of personal space that has existed before. He wants those unintentional brushes again, Sherlock encroaching on his air. 

“Seems a bit unlikely anyone talked, unless someone shared that information,” John suggests delicately.

“Impossible,” Sherlock says. “Though I suppose I can't speak for Anthea.”

“Sherlock, you would sooner tell a stranger.” Mycroft waves his hand.

“So our killer knows his way around anatomy, our cases and how to hack electronics?” John asks.

“While that is a slim chance,” Sherlock says to Mycroft and stands. “It's one we have to consider now it's been said, hmm?” He walks to the evidence wall.

John joins him and tries to follow Sherlock’s eyes as they dart around the photos and notes.

“We need to take precautions in light of the recent development,” Mycroft says. “Heighten our security.”

Sherlock throws his head back in dry laughter. “Security? Willa could break into MI6, brother mine.”

With a sigh, Mycroft stands. “This is why I said it is necessary. Sherlock, it is possible that we are dealing with someone more dangerous than James Moriarty.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Have you been watching Eastenders? While you’ve always had a penchant for drama, I really think your newfound entanglements have made your brain soft.”

“Sherlock,” John warns. Teasing one’s brother about being melodramatic is one thing, but to cast aspersions about his private relationship is quite another.

Mycroft approaches Sherlock slowly but with purpose. “I don’t think we want to start talking about entanglements.” His tone is low, but menacing all the same. 

Sherlock drops his gaze to the floor and takes a step back. “Your suggestions.”

“Howard Cooper is a bit of wunderkind with computers. I will have him analyse our firewalls and encryption. Make no mistake, this person has his mind set on you in a way that even Moriarty did not. He had a criminal empire to manage, but this person’s sole focus is you and John. We need to take every measure at our disposal to keep you safe and catch this madman before we lose anyone else.”

Sherlock nods tightly. 

“And please be more careful when you leave the house.” Mycroft shakes his head. 

“Why? Everyone knows I’m alive. It’s in all the papers. I’ve gone from a hero to disfigured tragedy.” Sherlock purses his lips. 

Mycroft and John exchange a glance. 

Sherlock turns to them with a humorless smile. “Oh, did you think that hiding the print version of tabloids would keep me safe? That I wouldn’t see what the press is saying about me now? I do have access to the internet.”

John steps closer with his heart racing. If he had hated those rags before, he could just about strangle them bare handed now. “Don’t listen them. I will march there tonight with a lawsuit so large…”

“Are they lying? Is it not the truth? I have been disfigured, haven’t I? Are we to pretend that nothing happened? At least they are being truthful instead of pretending that nothing has changed, that I haven’t changed. People notice me and not because I’m clever, but because half my face has melted off.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “And that will never change, not now.”

Sherlock shakes his head and stalks out of the room leaving Mycroft, John and Greg with gaping mouths. After footsteps pounding on the stairs, the door on the second floor slams. 

“That went well,” Mycroft sighs as he pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“He was overdue,” Greg says. 

John wonders if he should attempt to go upstairs. He’s not certain of what he would say, but he feels like he should try. 

“John, I advise against that course of action,” Mycroft warns.

“What?” John asks innocently. He hates that both brothers seem to know what he’s going to do before he even knows himself. 

“He needs to cool off. If you go up there, he will unleash his most unpleasant thoughts on you. Which he will inevitably regret and he will never forgive himself. The entire affair will set you back days, if not weeks.” 

“You, of all people, are going to advise me on how to handle your brother?” John cocks his head. 

Mycroft sniffs. “I have been the one living with him for months. I think I have a rather accurate understanding of his current moods and thought processes.”

John feels the heat rise from his skin. “I could have helped. I could have supported him, been there. He didn’t have to go about this alone.” John’s hand opens and closes like a heartbeat. 

“Do you think your wife would have been so understanding of you running off to tend to your injured friend? Your absence would have been worse,” Mycroft growls. 

John doesn’t have a response because Mycroft is right. Mary would have never been tolerant of John keeping a vigil by Sherlock. In many a fight, she would take the opportunity to bring up that John had essentially abandoned her for most of the pregnancy to tend to Sherlock. It didn’t matter that she was the reason the detective had been laid up recovering from a gunshot wound to the chest. 

“Doctor Watson, there you are. This little one is a bit fussy tonight,” Greta enters the study with a sniffling Willa in her arms. “She might have a touch of fever.”

John rushes to his daughter to lay a hand on her pink cheek. “She does feel warm. How long has she been like this?”

“Just since waking from her afternoon nap. She wouldn’t eat much, but took most of her bottle.” Greta hands the baby to John. 

“Her nose was a little runny this morning.” He kisses her warm cheek. “Let’s go upstairs and see if you have a temperature. Greta, could you start a bath for me?”

“Of course.” Greta rubs her back. “Poor dear.” 

John turns to Mycroft and Greg. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Mycroft nods. “Of course.”

Greg nods. “I’ll have Myc help me finish up here.”

“I will not,” Mycroft states. 

Greg smiles. “Yes, you will. Night John.”

John nods to the very odd couple before taking Willa upstairs. He pauses at the first landing to stare down the darkened hallway leading to Sherlock's room. He's not certain Willa could help at the moment. Sherlock has shown his hand, and while he can be his own worst enemy, he will lash out like a cornered animal if approached right now. 

John continues to Willa’s room to undress his daughter for her bath. Greta hums in the bathroom as she sets out a duck towel and expensive baby soap. Mycroft insists keeping the house stocked with only the best toiletries. 

“I set out a cotton sleeper,” Greta says. “Don't want her to get too warm.”

“Thank you, Greta.” Willa whines and rubs her eyes. “Could you bring a bottle in fifteen minutes?”

Greta smiles down at Willa. “She's so tired.”

John nods. “She's fighting off something. It's not surprising with what I do. I can sanitise myself as much as possible but some germs will break through.”

“It's good for her. She shouldn’t be cooped up in this place all the time,” Greta says. 

“It's just safer.” John carefully pulls the shirt over Willa’s head.

“Oh, you know those men would guard her like the Hope diamond. Especially that Carter fellow.” Greta pulls a fresh blanket from the wardrobe. “You should take her to see Father Christmas and get a photo. Get her some air.”

John nods thoughtfully. Since they have come to live at the Holmes Manor, Willa has only left the grounds twice. John knows that it can't be healthy for his daughter, who had been used to going out with her mum all the time.

“Once her fever breaks, we'll arrange to go to the store.” He carries Willa into the bathroom.

Greta leaves to warm a bottle while John bathes a squirmy Willa. Despite a runny nose and drooping eyes, she laughs and splashes her daddy. Exhaustion begins to edge in on him. It seems as if every day runs on high emotion, and today has been exceptional. 

Sherlock had arranged for a tree, designed a decorating scheme and ordered a beautiful ornament - all for Willa and John. Even while powdering his daughter’s bottom, John cannot wrap his mind around it. Sherlock has changed. Would he have been so thoughtful as only a visiting uncle? Would he have stayed away, being perceptive of Mary's jealousy? 

John clenches his teeth when he thinks of the tabloids again. He should march down there...no, that will only make it worse. John can see the headlines now ‘Disfigured Detective’s Partner Lashes Out at Journalists’. The press has always been suggestive about their relationship. Marching down to the offices will only give them wood for the fire. The last thing Sherlock needs is more unwanted attention. 

Maybe John needs an ally. Kitty Reilly owes them a huge favour after the Richard Brook debacle. Or even someone on the inside like Sally Donovan, or Dimmock. Someone who can feed the media some positive press.

Willa feels much cooler after a bath and a bottle. Her tired body drifts off before she has even finished. Gently, John tucks her into bed and shuffled into his room. Wearily, he kicks off his shoes and sits on the bed. Despite the rumbling in his stomach, he stretches out on his bed. Just five minutes, he tells himself. Just five or ten, then some dinner.

He falls into a deep sleep.


	74. Chapter 74

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly sits opposite John in a busy cafe and pushes a large latte to him.“You look exhausted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I have to thank the team that pushes me to put my best word forward. callie4180, Jen221b, burning_up, fruitbat and Irene. They put up with my typos, lack of commas, iPhone auto-correct, missing words, and unrealized thoughts to work their magic. You are a blessing. 
> 
> Thank you to my readers. I am moved that you are as involved in the story as I am. Thank you for reading, discussing and being part of the process.

Molly sits opposite John in a busy cafe and pushes a large latte to him.“You look exhausted.” 

“Willa has been sick, so she's not sleeping.” The hot beverage scalds his tongue, but the creamy texture is comforting. He knows he should go straight home from his morning shift, but meeting with Molly over coffee adds some much needed normalcy to his life. “Ta.”

Molly waves her hand dismissively. “I feel bad for not making plans sooner.”

“Thank you for ringing. My entire existence is the clinic and the case,” he sighs. “With fatherhood thrown in there.”

“I'm sorry. I can't imagine doing it on your own.” Molly shakes her head.

“That's the thing, I'm not on my own. I have more help now than...before,” John says.

“Right, the house maid.”

A small smile plays on the corners of John's mouth. “And Sherlock.”

Molly’s eyebrows shoot up. “Sherlock?”

“Last night, Willa woke at three in the morning and wouldn't settle back down. I took her to the kitchen to get a bottle. Of course, he was awake...and he just took her for me.” John knows his smile is most likely giving him away. 

“Who knew he had it in him?” Molly muses.

“I know. I went back to bed. This morning, I found the two of them curled up in a duvet on the floor of her room - fast asleep.” The memory warms John's chest. 

“I'm sorry, but that’s precious. Did you take a picture?” She asks.

He shakes his head. “I didn't want to wake them. And Sherlock hates when his human side is captured on film.”

Molly smirks. “So, living with him again isn't that bad?”

John shrugs. “Oh, he’s still an insufferable arse, but he really cares for Willa.”

Molly reaches across the table to lay her hand on John's. “Of course he does. Willa is your daughter. How can you not see it?”

John drops his gaze to their hands piled on the table. Seen what? It’s not as if Sherlock had been exuding overt emotions. Had the signs been in front of him all these years? 

“You know exactly what I'm talking about.” Molly settles back in her chair. A blush creeps up from John's neck. “The first time we met, I knew.” She shakes her head and laughs. “I was so jealous. I just wanted him to look at me like that. He really saw you while the rest of us were like ghosts he could see through.”

John's mouth falls open. It's surreal hearing this from not only someone outside the situation but someone close to Sherlock. A woman who had been completely besotted with him.

“That's just…” John chuckles uncomfortably.

“True. I thought when you were engaged to Mary that maybe…” Her voice trails off. “He used to talk to you when you weren't there. Made him sound more mad than usual. And sometimes he'd call me John.”

John tries to hide his crimson face behind the paper coffee cup. 

“He hated leaving. You know, when he…” Molly gnaws on her lower lip.

“I know. We don't talk about that.” John shifts in his chair.

Molly smiles weakly. “Of course. You're men. You don't hash out your emotions. But he was very upset that he had to leave, and that he had to hurt you. Those were very dark days.”

John nods. “Yes, they were.”

Molly shrugs one shoulder. “I just thought you should know. And I hated lying to you.”

“I know.” John's eyes drift to a nearby table where Carter and Howard Cooper are having a seemingly casual cup of coffee. He finds it interesting that Howard’s eyes remain trained on Molly. It could be that the young agent takes his job very seriously, or that he's more interested in the nature of Molly's coffee date.

“We just never talked about it and…” Molly fiddles with her napkin.

“It's all fine, Molly. It was years ago. I have bigger fish to fry,” John says.

“How is the case?” Molly asks.

“Slow. We haven't been able work like in the past. Until last week, Sherlock had been shut up in that house. He's only just getting out there, which is what he needs to solve this.” John thinks to the tabloids. “But that brings new challenges.”

Molly nods knowingly. “I saw those vile front pages.”

“Unfortunately, he did too,” John sighs. “But it's more than that. It's how people react when they see him. Even though they don't recoil in fear, you can see it in their eyes. He can see them react. The surprise doesn't affect him, but the pity….”

“It's hard, especially when you knew him before…” Molly struggles to find the right words.

“But he's not that different. Now that he's out there doing what he needs to do, he hasn't changed. I wish people would see that.” John shakes his head. 

“Eventually that will become the new normal,” Molly says simply.

“Maybe.” He glances over to Carter and Howard. “The constant surveillance is wearing on me. It was a major production just to take Willa to see Santa at Harrod’s.”

John whips out his phone to show Molly as he recounts that afternoon for her. 

“Sherlock went?” Molly’s eyes widen.

“He insisted on being present as an extra security measure.” John nods.

John was shocked when Sherlock came down the stairs dressed in a fresh suit that morning. John had told the detective of his plan the night before, which had been met with a non-committal murmur. When Sherlock fetched his coat and announced he was going, John stared with his mouth agape. 

“We went first thing in the morning to avoid the crowds. Of course, he hadn't slept a wink the night before,” John says.

And that made Sherlock withdrawn and ornery. He glared out the car window most of the ride through London. John attempted to engage him in conversation only to receive one word answers. He very nearly tossed Sherlock from the car. However, as always, the cantankerous detective would respond to Willa. In fact, the only time he smiled was when Willa reached for his hand and called him, “Boo!”

“It must have been a madhouse, regardless of the time,” Molly says.

John nods. “The doors opened at eight. At half seven, there was a line out the door. I told Sherlock to stay in the car. Carter could come in with us. No, he absolutely insisted that he come in too.”

The trouble started the moment they entered the store. Not everyone recognised Sherlock, but most people stared. Some whispered behind their hands. Children, who do not understand propriety, asked questions like ‘what happened to that man’s face’ or ‘is he sick’. John saw Sherlock pretend to not hear or be affected, but he could see the hurt in those sea blue eyes. His posture sunk as if he wanted to disappear. 

Molly sighs sadly. “That's just awful. Did he expect that type of reaction?”

“I considered it when we were in the car. We've been to Bart's and the Yard. Yes, people still had a reaction but those people know who he is. At Harrod's, he was completely exposed to all the ugliness and ignorance out there.”

John's hand aches. He looks out at the muted colours outside the cafe. The clouds hang low over the city and threaten rain. He clenches his fist and shakes out his fingers. 

With people whispering and gawking, Sherlock became lost inside himself. His eyes darted around like a bird trapped in a hall of mirrors. John had sworn that he could hear the deductions tumbling around the detective’s brain. He needed to prevent Sherlock from collapsing in on himself, so he shifted Willa into Sherlock's arms.

“How did that help?” Molly asks.

John can't help but smile. “She has a way with him. Her eyes light up when she sees him, and he just changes. His smile could blot out the sun for her.”

It's Molly's turn to smile. “You sound a little besotted.”

Immediately, John's face closes up. He drops his gaze to his fingers playing with a wooden stir stick.

“It's a good thing, John,” Molly coaxes. “Really, it is.”

John pushes that thought to the far corners of his mind. Sometimes the intense joy that comes over him when he watches Sherlock and Willa interact knocks the air out of him. It's similar to the feeling he would get when Sherlock would make a brilliant deduction or solve a case without blinking an eye. However, this emotion is stronger. It’s as if a powerful magnet pulls him closer to Sherlock, and he can't stop it.

John clears his throat. “It's good they get along.”

Of course, Willa had soothed Sherlock's tumultuous mind. She burrowed into his shoulder and played with a curl at the nape of his neck. Anyone in the store could see that Willa loved Sherlock and the feeling was quite mutual. Of course, that did not give anyone the right to take photos.

“No!” Molly says loud enough to stir Howard's interest. “People can be so unforgivably rude.”

John nods grimly. “He acted like he didn't see it, but I could tell he was bothered. And by the time we left the store, it was all over social media. Twitter, Instagram….things I'd never heard of.”

Sherlock heard the murmurs and unmistakable click of shutters. He had nowhere to hide as they stood in line. John quietly suggested that they leave. Willa would not remember not having visited Father Christmas when she was nine months old. Sherlock refused to leave. His focus was reduced to Willa and John.

“Did it make the papers?” Molly aks.

John opens his briefcase to pull out three papers. Though not a huge front page feature, a tiny photo of Sherlock and John with Willa’s obscured face graces the corners on each of the three tabloid papers. 

“‘Uncle Sherlock pays a visit to Father Christmas,” Molly reads aloud. “It's not that bad. They didn't even get the scarred side.”

John hands her another.

“‘And baby makes three’,” Molly sighs. “That's…”

“Impertinent,” John finishes.

She looks up. “But not untrue.”

“The article is abhorrent.” John clears his throat. “Brings up Mary’s death. Tag line is ‘Together again’ and ‘at last’. It's just awful.”

“I’m sorry that it was such an awful experience.” Molly shakes her head. 

“That’s the thing. Despite all that and the talk, Sherlock was positively beaming on the way home. He used his phone to take a photo of Willa with Father Christmas. I caught him looking at later that night.” 

“Did he make it his wallpaper?” Molly teases. 

John laughs. “He’s still Sherlock. If that happened, I’d have to take him to the doctor.” He takes a deep breath. “I know it wasn’t easy for him to do something terribly banal as visiting a department store Santa. Even before, he would have sawed off an arm before something so ordinary. I know it was for Willa.”

“And you…..he’d do anything for you.”

John purses his lips. “Maybe.”

Molly settles back in her seat. “He knew this was going to happen.”

“Sherlock?”

She shakes her head. “Mycroft. He knew the media would twist the truth and make him a freak. I think that's why he kept Sherlock hidden until you were back.”

“Whatever for? So they could make assumptions when they saw us together? Make our friendship something tawdry?” John whispers harshly.

“So Sherlock had an ally and support. We all know that he's equal parts strong and weak. A lesser man would have died in that blast but he's also incredibly fragile.” She leans forward. “Mycroft has him tested weekly.”

“Really?” It actually doesn't surprise John. A relapse could always be around the corner. 

“He's been clean, but with everything going on, Mycroft is worried about him slipping.” She steals a pointed look to John. “He'd never with Willa around.”

John rubs his eyes. “We haven't really talked about all that. We've kept it to the case, small talk. We haven't even discussed Mary.”

Molly bites her lip. “Do you think you should?”

“Probably. Will we?” John shrugs. “We haven't talked about the first time.” He snorts. “Maybe we should look into couples therapy.”

While John chuckles, Molly doesn't. She avoids his gaze and shreds her napkin into pulp.

“That was a joke. You know, ‘haha’,” John says.

“It's not the worst idea...” Molly begins.

John does not want to hear this at all. He recognises that his relationship is extremely complex. Molly doesn't know the half of it. The letter, the chatroom. A therapist would love to get their hands on John and Sherlock. Years of pining, miscommunication, and repressed emotions - oh and a few deaths. 

John looks over his shoulder. “Did Howard tell you that he's helping us?”

Molly’s eyes shoot across the cafe to Howard, then drop to what’s left of the napkin. “Oh?’

John smirks. He had a feeling that Molly was a little smitten with the agent. “With security. The computers and cameras. Our phones. Things like that.”

“Well, he’s very smart.” Molly finishes her coffee. 

“That he is.” John nods. 

“It’s been a week since the last victim,” Molly says quietly. 

John hums in agreement. “I feel the clock ticking. There is no reason or pattern beyond that everyone is connected to Sherlock and me. He’s just out there watching and waiting.” John looks out the front window. “And these tabloids aren’t helping. The killer is fixated on us, and articles about us probably feed the fire.”

“I’m sorry this is such a difficult time, John.” 

John tries not to think too much about the last few month’s roller coaster. Even just the last few weeks with Mary’s death, discovering that Sherlock had been alive, and then moving in with him. He is just thankful that Willa seems unaffected by all the change. She hasn't called out for Mary lately. In fact, she calls for ‘Boo’ more often. It breaks John’s heart a little every time she does. Sherlock has managed to become an integral part of their family in a fairly short time. 

“Serial killers eventually make a mistake. Now that Sherlock is able to work as he should, we'll find something...hopefully soon,” John sighs.

They sit in an uneasy silence for a minute, each lost in their own thoughts. 

“Do you have plans for Christmas Eve?” John asks after a moment.

“No, I go to my sister’s house Christmas afternoon. I usually order Chinese and watch It's a Wonderful Life,” Molly replies.

“We're having a party, of sorts,” John says.

Molly raises an eyebrow. “A party at the Mycroft Manor?”

“Sherlock's parents are coming into town. He's definitely not looking forward to it. I think he could use some allies,” John says. 

“Surely they've seen him,” Molly frowns.

“Yes, but once they realised people close to us were being targeted, they went on an extended holiday.” John emptied his cup. The remaining foam is cold and feels slimy sliding down his throat. He's tempted to order another, but knows he will be staring at the ceiling for hours tonight if he does.

“Will you see Harry?” Molly asks.

“No, they are up North with agents keeping an eye on them.” John swallows hard. 

“Sounds like you could use an ally then,” Molly smiles.

John nods. “I probably could. I haven't seen the Holmeses since last Christmas. So much has happened.” He takes a deep breath to clear the darker memories that begin to creep from the corners of his mind. “Mrs. Hudson is coming, so it won't be all bad.”

Molly’s eyes slide over to Howard. “Do you think it would be okay if Agent Cooper came?”

A genuine smile overcomes John. “I think that would be perfectly fine.” He glances over. “So you and Howard?”

Molly's cheeks turn a deep shade of magenta. “We just talk a lot. I mean, he drives me to work and sits outside my house. We've had tea a few times.” She shrugs shyly. “He's come in for dinner once or twice. He's very nice.”

“And smart. It's a good combination.” John glances at his watch. “I should head home. Willa will be up from her afternoon kip. As will Sherlock.”

Molly giggles. “Should I bring anything Christmas Eve?”

John pats her arm affectionately. “Just yourself.” His eyes flick to the nearby table. “And whoever else happens to come along.”


	75. Chapter 75

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock straightens the cuffs of his crimson shirt in the full length mirror. His dark curls have been fussed and mussed. He turns to the right and admires his profile. If only, he sighs. 
> 
> Part One of Christmas Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy First Angsteversary!!
> 
> On February 11, 2015, I posted the first chapter of You Ain't Alone. It's been one of year of writing and thinking about these two - tearing them apart and bringing them together. It's been a year with many people helping me craft this story, many typos, awful grammar, and different writing tools. It's been a year of people reading and deciding to follow me into hell and pain, discussing and feeling a silly idea I had. It's been a great year, and I am so happy you are all with me on this journey. I hope you stay with me in 2016 as they come together, stronger than steel and take on the world together. Thank you. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much to the team that helps me pull it all together. They read my awful first draft (it really is a mess). They listen to my ideas, answer questions and help me plot. They are skilled writers and artists on their own, and the fact they take time out of their day to help me is awfully humbling - and a debt I can never repay. Callie4180, 221bjen, burning up, Irene and fruitbat - I love you guys!
> 
> Thank you to those who have felt inspired to do artwork for me to share. It's really means everything. And thank you to everyone who foolws, reads for the first time, and takes a moment to comment. I love that we have discussions - and I love talking about this stupid story.

Sherlock straightens the cuffs of his crimson shirt in the full length mirror. His dark curls have been fussed and mussed. He turns to the right and admires his profile. If only, he sighs. 

Voices float up from the study one floor below him. Mummy's cackle cuts through the din. People had started to arrive ninety minutes ago. Since then, Sherlock's phone has vibrated with text messages from Mycroft, Molly and John. 

Sherlock is not ready to face them; his family and friends, or John. He knows Mummy will fuss over him, and he cannot find the strength to handle her. His resolve will have to come from a few glasses of wine and a tumbler of brandy.

Instead of walking to the door, he sits at the edge of his unmade bed and stares at stacks of files on his floor. He could clean his room rather than join the festivities. Mycroft has been hissing at him to clean up. Now is the perfect time. 

A knock on his door brings him out of a staring match with his balled up laundry. 

“Go away, Mycroft,” he calls. 

“It's not Mycroft,” John's voice replies from the other side.

Sherlock scrambles to his feet and opens the door. “John?”

“May I come in?” John stands with his hands behind his back as if at attention.

“Of course.” Sherlock moves aside to allow John to enter.

John offers a tight smile as he steps into the room. His eyes scan the floor, bookcases and bed. “It's similar to mine, except mine is joint with Willa.”

Suddenly, Sherlock wishes he had cleaned the clothes and files that scatter on the rug. 

“Yes, well...your room was the parental suite. Hence the adjoining nursery,” he explains as he stoops to gather the dirty clothes which he tosses into the en suite bathroom.

“You don't let Greta in here, do you?” John muses.

“No.”

John rocks on his heels. “You aren't hiding anything, right?”

Sherlock hears the anger in John's question. “Of course not.” He fiddles nervously with the cuff of his shirt. Clearly, Mycroft has told John about his post accident drug use. “You have to understand that I was in pain…”

John holds his hand up to stop Sherlock's confession and excuses. “I can't pretend to know what you went through. I wish I had been there during the worst of it. Maybe if you hadn't felt so isolated, things would have been different. It's becoming clear that neither of us had a choice in the matter.”

Sherlock nods slowly. “Regardless, things are different.” For the first time, he gestures to the scars across his face. “I'm different, and that can't be changed or ignored.” He sees John swallow roughly. The air in his bedroom feels stale and heavy like smog.

“Yes, but you are still a pain in the arse, making me come up and fetch you.” John manages a grin. 

Sherlock is thankful for John’s attempt to lighten the mood. “Well, needs must, John.” He smiles wanly. 

While John’s attention is diverted to the easel by the window, Sherlock takes a moment to appreciate the crisp navy trousers and cream coloured v-neck jumper John wears. For many years, his friend had insisted on the ugliest and gaudiest Christmas jumpers. Tonight, he looks...delicious.Quickly, Sherlock tears his eyes away before his thoughts run away and his reactions become noticeable. 

“Did Mycroft send you?” he asks.

“No, your mum. Granted, she’s busy doting on Willa. She is asking what is keeping you. I told her I would bring you down.” John studies a charcoal drawing of a man’s naked back. “Did you do this?”

Hastily, Sherlock rushes over to flip a blank page forward and cover the drawing. “LIke the violin, it helps me to think. I try to sketch how tall I think the killer is...the crime scenes…”

“What were the marks? On the back?” John asks. 

“I heard Mrs. Hudson downstairs. Is she fighting Mummy for Willa?” Sherlock walks to the mirror and smoothes a crease in his shirt. 

“Oh yes. It’s actually a three way tug of war with Molly - who brought Howard with her, interestingly enough,” John says. 

“As predicted,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Predicted?” John cocks his head.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You don’t see a similarity? Dark curls? Full lips? Remind you of anyone?”

John’s jaw tightens. “You’ve certainly taken notice of Agent Cooper.”

Is that jealousy Sherlock detects?

“It’s what I do, John. I observe, and from I have seen, Agent Cooper strikes a similar resemblance to myself. Knowing Molly’s past infatuation with me and her engagement to Tim,” Sherlock says. 

“It was Tom,” John corrects him.

“Tim, Tom...whatever. My point is that Agent Cooper is completely,” Sherlock frames the words, “Molly’s type. At least Herbert…”

“Howard,” John says.

Sherlock sighs. “Howard…” he emphasises the ‘How’. “seems to have a working brain.”

John nods. “They seem suited to each other.” He steps behind Sherlock and into the mirror’s reflection where he meets Sherlock’s gaze. “Are you ready to join me downstairs?”

Sherlock’s knees go weak and threaten to buckle as if he were going to swoon like a Victorian heroine. He cannot deduce what lies behind John’s eyes. They pierce through his chest like Mary’s bullet the year before. The overwhelming urge to to spin around and press himself against John until they collapse on his messy bed turns his insides, almost violently. Sherlock knows that tonight is not the time. In fact, it may never be the time for that, but he has to pull himself together. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath and nods once. “No, but I will go with you.”

John smiles, and Sherlock melts. “It will be fine. It’s just Christmas.”

“That’s what they all say,” Sherlock mutters as he pulls his bedroom door open. 

Sherlock follows John down to the study and can't help noticing how the trousers hug his arse. He forces his eyes to the floor. Every step that brings him closer to the study increases his heart rate. 

“You are truly dragging your feet,” John comments over his shoulder. 

“You've met my parents,” Sherlock replies. 

The study is choking with Christmas cheer. A roaring fire pops below seven red stockings hanging from the mantle. Gold and silver angels adorn Willa’s stocking, placed between Sherlock and John’s. 

The study seems small, cluttered with people. No one seems to notice that Sherlock has joined the party. Mycroft and Father sit in the two chairs by the fire, deep in conversation. Molly and Greg peruse a table with food by the windows. Mrs. Hudson and Mummy -

“Sherlock!” Mummy passes Willa to an eager Mrs. Hudson before rushing over to wrap her arms around her lanky son.

“Mother.” Sherlock awkwardly pats her on the back.

She sniffles and holds him at arm’s length. “You look good. Finally put some weight on. Those dark circles are gone.” She pulls him to her again and squeezes him.

Sherlock hisses. “Still a bit tender in some places, Mother.”

Immediately, Mummy releases him and takes a step back. “I'm sorry.”

“How was your trip?” He asks. 

“Lovely, but what now? That man is still out there,” Mummy says irritably.

“You will stay at my house up north. I've made adjustments to the security and you will be perfectly safe,” Mycroft says.

“Why don't we all go up there?” Mummy suggests. “We can all be safe.”

“Mummy, that is an unrealistic solution.” Mycroft shakes his head.

“London is home,” Sherlock says, with his eyes on John. He would remain as close to John for as long as he is allowed.

John clears his throat and gestures to the tree. “Sherlock decorated the tree, Mrs. Holmes.”

Like a switch, her frown blossoms into a wide grin. “Did you? It's beautiful!”

“And perfectly symmetrical,” Sherlock offers.

“He had help,” Greg grouses from the punch bowl. 

“Yes, if anything is out of place it's Greg’s fault,” Sherlock adds.

Greg turns his head and mutters under his breath.

“Sherlock used to love Christmas as a boy. Until…” Mummy taps her temple.

“Until big brother Mycroft told me that there was no such thing as an old man with a white beard that left presents for children,” Sherlock says, sourly.

“You tripped the security system while trying to disable it,” Mycroft says. “It brought rescue, police and an enormous bill.”

“I really have missed our Christmases,” Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“That was awful, Myc,” Mummy tuts. “You needn't dash the boy’s dreams.”

Mycroft rises from his chair to pour himself a hearty glass of eggnog.

Willa wriggles in Mrs. Hudson’s arms when she sees Sherlock. “Boo! Boo!”

“She wants you,” Mrs. Hudson says.

Sherlock scoops Willa from Mrs. Hudson. “How are you, little one?”

Willa claps her hands. “Boo!” She throws her chubby arms around his neck and burrows her face in his neck.

“Boo?” Mummy asks. “Is that what she calls you?”

“Sherlock is a bit of a mouthful for nine month old.” He rubs circles into her back.

“Where did she come up with ‘Boo’?” Mummy cocks her head.

Sherlock does not want to explain how his mangled face gave him the affectionate nickname. 

“Sherlock plays peek-a-boo with her. Boo kind of stuck, so...” John steps forward to explain. 

Sherlock glances up to see John smile and wink.

“Oh that's darling!” Mummy gushes. “Look how she loves you!”

“They get on very well,” John pats his daughter’s back. His hand drops to Sherlock’s arm and gives him a gentle squeeze before moving to the buffet table. 

Sherlock can barely breathe. The weight of John's hand remains after he's crossed the room. He has just spared Sherlock an awful scene with Mummy - and touched him. Could it be that he's on his way to forgiving Sherlock? Perhaps, they can move past this and find their friendship again.

Willa tugs at his curls and drools on his suit jacket. If it had been any other baby, he would be appalled. “Getting another tooth, are we?”

Greta enters the study wearing a garish Christmas themed apron. “I have Willa’s supper ready. I figured I would feed her first and let you eat in peace.”

“Can I feed her?” Mrs. Hudson springs forward. 

“I would love to as well!” Mummy chimes in. 

Greta looks overwhelmed by the two extra pairs of hands. “Well, I guess….I mean…”

Sherlock glances over to John who suppresses a chuckle. 

“Come here, little love,” Mummy holds out her hands. Both Mrs. Hudson and Greta share a look of defeat against the taller silver haired woman. 

“Bye Boo!” Willa willingly allows herself to be swept away by her new matronly fan club. 

Sherlock shakes his head with a chuckle and joins John by the wheel of brie. “Looks like you have the evening off.”

“As do you,” John laughs lightly. 

Sherlock can’t help the way it makes them sound like...partners in childrearing - or parents. When he thinks about the last few weeks, it really has been a joint effort that came about effortlessly. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, quietly. “Back there with Mum.”

John cocks his head in confusion. 

“With ‘Boo’,” Sherlock whispers. 

“Oh, of course. No one needs to know how your name came about,” John leans closer for privacy. 

“Yes.” Sherlock’s gaze drops to John’s lips. “Though, it’s rather obvious.”

“Not to everyone.” John’s eyes are the softest Sherlock has seen in years. “They see that you care deeply for her and she adores you. That’s the only thing that matters.”

Sherlock’s heart leaps into his throat. He can smell menthol fragrance from John’s shaving cream mingling with a glass of chardonnay lingering on his tongue. He feels dizzy, heady, tingly. 

With a short nod, Sherlock clears his throat. “Yes, I guess that is the only thing.”

If it had just been the two of them in the room, Sherlock wonders what could have happened next. He is just inches from John, enough to smell him and feel his body heat radiating from his lush jumper. If he moves his hand, the soft fabric would brush his knuckles. John’s head tilts up to meet his gaze. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, then bites it - a habit John does when he has something important weighing on his mind - or when he is aroused. 

If it has just been the two of them, what would John say or do? He clearly had amorous feelings once. Even sexual inclinations. Could they still exist? Have they not been killed by lies and time - or even thick, gnarled skin?

“What’s under here?” his father asks, standing by the evidence wall. 

Sherlock’s gaze shifts from John’s moistened lips to the horrific shiny red and green wrapping paper that covers all the photos and files of evidence. 

“What in God’s name is that?” Sherlock stalks over to the wall. 

“You wouldn't allow it to be taken down, so I had to have it covered. No one needs to see evidence while trying to enjoy their Christmas dinner,” Mycroft replies. “And it stays covered through tomorrow.”

“How am I supposed to work?” Sherlock huffs.

“Sherlock, it's Christmas and your parents are home. You are not meant to work,” Mycroft says.

“I guarantee that ‘he’ hasn't taken the holiday off.” Sherlock points to the green and red wrapping paper.

“Perhaps after the holiday, you can show me,” his father peeks under the foil paper.

Sherlock straightens his back. “Of course.”

Mycroft steers the attention and conversation to their parents’ holiday. While he and his father reclaim their seats by the fire, John has wandered over to Greg and Molly to pick at the Brie. The electricity between John and Sherlock has evaporated. The moment has disappeared. Sherlock's eyes switch to the tree, flickering in the corner. The silver rattle shines the brightest among the ornaments. He has nowhere to drift into either conversation. He thinks of quietly slipping to his room. Without notice, Sherlock skirts the edge of the room to the doorway of the study, 

The front opens and the wind ruffles Sherlock’s hair. Carter blows on his hands. 

“Feels like it could snow,” he says.

Sherlock considers the blond agent as he removes his camel coloured coat. 

“His parents don't approve of your relationship,” Sherlock states. 

Carter pauses with his coat inches from the brass hook. His head turns to Sherlock. “They don't know about our relationship.”

Sherlock sighs heavily. “For all the advances we've made within our marriage laws, it's little use if our families cannot advance their thinking. I hope you know he is always welcome here.”

“Thank you, sir,” Carter says. 

Sherlock gives him a sharp look.

“I mean, Sherlock. Thank you.”

Greta appears in the hallway. “Can you tell everyone that dinner is ready?”

Mummy and Mrs. Hudson crowd around Willa’s high chair. They take turns feeding her vegetable puffs. Mycroft holds court at the head of table with Father, as he always did. Their heads are bent together in hushed consultation over any number of things. The security in the house up North. Sherlock's wellbeing. The state of the family fortune. All of the above. 

Greg is sat between Molly and Carter, and on the opposite side of the table from Mycroft. Sherlock had seen the Inspector slip out of the manor in the predawn hours with a satchel of his things slung on his back. He's watched the the furtive glances between his brother and Greg throughout cocktails. Mycroft clearly avoids making direct eye contact. 

Sherlock pushes the succulent goose with orange sauce around his plate. In between bites of his herbed potatoes, he chances a glance across the table. John chats with Molly and Carter easily. He catches Sherlock's eye, and stares pointedly at the full plate. Sherlock stabs a piece of goose and shoves it in his mouth as John smiles and continues his conversation. 

Willa bangs a plastic spoon on the tray of her high chair, then looks to Mummy and Mrs. Hudson for reaction. As Sherlock quietly takes in the scene, he realises that his entire life sits at this table. He has killed and died for them. They, in turn, have rallied around him. Sherlock grabs his wine glass to take a large sip before his emotions overtake him. He is not usually a thankful person, but he feels content to be surrounded tonight.

Mrs. Hudson, Greta and Mummy argue over who will bathe Willa. John decides that it is late, and a general wipe down is enough. 

Mummy hands John a flat square present. “You must open this tonight. It's for Willa.”

“But you brought all those gifts,” John gestures to the multiple gifts under the tree.

“She needs this one tonight,” Mummy says. “Please, I never get to spoil children anymore.”

Willa’s eyes widen when she sees the shiny red paper. Her arms reach for the green bow. 

“Thank you very much, Mrs…,” John starts.

“Mummy. You must call me Mummy.” She smoothes Willa’s reddish curls away from her eyes. “And I can be Grandmummy to you.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Let him put her to bed, Mother.”

John shifts Willa in his arms to tear the wrapping paper. “This is beautiful.”

Willa grabs the paper and crinkles it in her little hands. John turns the leather bound book over. 

“I'm sure she has this,” Mummy says, “but the illustrations in this copy are so beautiful.”

John leans forward to kiss Mummy's cheek. “Thank you so much. We'll read it tonight.”

“Dessert is served in the study,” Greta announces.

“Merry Christmas, precious.” Mummy leaves a deep red lipstick mark on Willa's cheek.

“My mother would eat your daughter alive if she could,” Sherlock says after she sweeps into the study.

“She means well. It's good for Willa to be around all this love.” John kisses his daughter.

Sherlock brushes his fingers across her back. “Especially after the year she's had, that you've both had.”

John nods tightly. “Yes. Well, I better get her to bed.”

“Goodnight, little one,” Sherlock smiles tenderly.

“Boo.” She wraps her hand around his finger.

“Do you want to read this to her?” John asks.

“What?” Sherlock's head snaps up. “No, you're her father. You should read it.”

“You're much better at the voices,” John Meets his gaze. “I've heard you read to her.”

“Oh… I didn't…” Sherlock's cheek grow hot.

“It's fine. It's good. Really.” John smiles and walks to the stairs. “Come on. I know she'll love it.”

Sherlock can only nod and follow them, his heart beats in his throat. He cannot remember a Christmas Eve so wonderful. Even the ones he's had with John in the past, a woman had been present, brooding in the background. And of course last Christmas, he had had to watch John and Mary reconcile. His insides had burned in jealousy as they talked by the hearth. It would have been ten times worse if he didn't have Magnussen to take down. At least he had provided a distraction - until Sherlock gave himself a death sentence by putting a bullet in Charles’ evil skull. 

“Are you alright?” John asks.

Sherlock pulls out of the dark dungeon in his mind palace. This year, the only girl in John's arms is Willa. 

“Yes, I'm fine.” He pats his flat stomach. “Too much goose.”

John smirks. “I know for a fact that you had two bites of it. Can you hand me those pyjamas?”

Together, they dress Willa in fluffy footie pyjamas covered in smiling snowmen. Her little legs kick with joy, while she gnaws on her fist. Once zipped up, John places her in Sherlock's arms and clears the rocking chair by the window. 

“Are you certain?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes, definitely.”


	76. Chapter 76

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What's under the paper?” Mummy fingers the paper.
> 
> “No, Mummy, don't.” Mycroft springs to his feet. “It's classified.”
> 
> Mummy frowns. “Then why is it in your home?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. This was a long chapter...for me. Again, I NEED to thank all the people who help me. To callie4180 and 221bjen who help me bounce ideas and encourage me along the way. To fruitbat and Irene who smooth out the rough edges and make it less 'American'. To anyone who has helped along the way. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
> 
> And to the readers - thank you so so so so much. I KNOW I have tasked you with the slowest of burns. Like trying to light wet newspaper in a rain storm slow burn. I really try to consider how these two would truthfully come together again. While parts of them might want to rush it because it may feel right - they have endured a lot on their own and together. John has Willa's future to consider. Sherlock has his insecurities to muddle through. And they still need to tackle their 'other' relationship. So thank you for staying with me as we get closer to some kind of grand step. All I will say that the new year has very new possibilities and dangers. 
> 
> Thank you!

“What's under the paper?” Mummy fingers the paper.

“No, Mummy, don't.” Mycroft springs to his feet. “It's classified.”

Mummy frowns. “Then why is it in your home?”

“We need Sherlock and John's help, Mrs. Holmes,” Greg steps forward. “I'd rather have them work here where it is completely safe.”

Mummy pats Greg's arm. “Thank you, Inspector.” Her brows draw together. “Why aren't you home with your wife and children?”

Greg's cheeks break out into blotchy patches of red. “Well, we are, um, separated.”

Sherlock pauses outside of the study and motions for John to wait as well.

“Oh that's a shame,” Mummy tuts. “Will you get to see them at all?”

Greg nods. “I'll go to the house in the morning.”

“How horrible to be without your family on Christmas,” Mummy sighs and pats Greg's arm.

“Mummy, do you think you went a bit overboard with presents?” Mycroft walks over to the tree.

Her focus shifts. “How often do I have the opportunity to spoil a baby? This might be my only chance.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes.

“It's true. By next year, John could be remarried and we won't have Willa.” Mummy perches on the edge of the sofa.

John steals a glance at Sherlock, whose fists have curled into balls. His jaw clenches though he tries to maintain a passive expression. They should have stayed in Willa's room. Five minutes ago, Sherlock had gently rocked Willa to sleep on his lap. John had sat on the floor with his back against the crib and listened to Sherlock read to the little girl. It had been a perfect cocoon of peace that he desperately wants to recapture.

John clears his throat and gives Sherlock a meaningful look before walking into the study.

“I don't see myself remarried, Mrs. Holmes,” John announces as he walks over to pour himself a healthy glass of brandy.

“Why not? I'm sure you want a mother for Willa,” Mummy says.

“Mother,” Sherlock warns.

“I can speak from my own experience that just having a mother doesn't mean anything,” John replies sourly. “Willa is loved here, and we will be here for as long as we're invited.”

Sherlock feels as if his heart is being inflated too fast and too much. He's certain that he could have a heart attack from joy. He knows John's tone and conviction - he means everything he's just said. Sherlock longs to say something, anything, but his lips and brain will not work.

“You never need an invitation, John. This is your home and you are family,” Mycroft states with a nod to Sherlock.

He's rarely been thankful for his older brother. It had been advantageous when Mycroft turned up in Serbia. And in the case of a drug overdose, he had been helpful. In this moment, Sherlock very nearly loves Mycroft. 

“Of course,” he manages to get out. “Always.”

John pours another and hands it to Sherlock with a purposeful nod. Their fingers brush, and Sherlock almost loses his grip on the glass. 

“It's still a shame about Mary,” Mummy continues, undeterred. She crosses the room to place a hand on John's arm. “It must be tough to lose a partner during the holidays. And poor Willa.”

“She's very resilient.” John's jaw tightens.

“But you, I mean. I'm so thankful to have Sherlock this year. And last year. Twice we've almost lost him,” Mummy goes on.

“I'm like a cat. Several lives,” Sherlock smiles tightly. John's back has gone ramrod straight since the subject of Mary has been brought up.

“Even cats run out of lives, dear,” Mummy says with disapproval. “I'm just lucky to have both my boys here - and alive.”

“No thanks to Mary,” John mutters.

Mummy's head shoots up. “What?”

John's face turns crimson. “Nothing. Never mind.”

“John, you shouldn't talk ill of the dead. I don't know what kind of relationship you had.” Mummy waves her hand dismissively. “I know things were tense, but she was still your wife and Willa's mother. You need to be respectful of her memory.”

“That woman,” John sputters, “nearly killed your son.”

“Oh John,” Sherlock sighs. 

They had agreed to never tell anyone about who had shot Sherlock. Perhaps if she hadn't been pregnant, everything would have been different. John would have not stayed to make it work. Sherlock would not have felt compelled to protect John by killing Magnussen. Sherlock had known that he was responsible for his actions, but Mary had been reason for a lot of pain.

Mummy turns to John with wide eyes. “What? How…?”

John is too far gone to hold back. His fist pumps like a racing heart. “She shot Sherlock. She put a bullet in your son.”

Mummy's face drains of colour, leaving blotches of pink blush painted on white skin. “What?”

Mycroft sighs heavily. “Mummy, please sit.” He guides her to the chair by the fire.

“Myc, what is he saying?” 

“Nothing you need to worry about. Sherlock is here and alive,” Mycroft says, soothingly.

“I'm sorry,” John whispers to Sherlock. “I just lost it.”

“It's fine,” Sherlock says.

Mummy stares into the fire, her mathematician’s mind turning and churning. Her head whips back to where Sherlock and John stand.

“You had that woman to my house for Christmas last year!”

John's mouth falls open.

“I made dinner and biscuits. I gave her tea and made certain she was cozy. And you're telling me that she killed him?” Mummy’s voice echoes through the room and down the hall.

“I didn't die, Mother,” Sherlock drawls. 

“You did. For several minutes, you were dead. Your heart had stopped on the table! Now I find out his wife did that?” Mummy points a shaky finger at John.

Sherlock isn't sure how diffuse the situation. Mummy is correct in everything. Mary had killed Sherlock that late summer night. He had technically died on the operating table, or at least his heart had stopped. However, his brain had saved him. Perhaps that and his love for John, who is now torn between anger and guilt.

“I-I…,” John stammers.

“You invited her into our house.” Mummy shakes her head.

“No.” Sherlock moves beside John. “I invited her for Christmas. I was the one that implored John to make amends for the future of his child.”

Mummy blinks. “What? Why would you want this person in your life?”

“Because I live on danger, Mother. Here we are, unprovoked, living in fear for our lives,” Sherlock says.

“How could you be with her?” Mummy looks beyond Sherlock as if he's just said nothing.

John shrug weakly. “I don't know. For Willa, I guess. Once I found who she was, I worried for the baby. But it was never the same, and I was still very angry. I am still angry. At her. At myself.”

“Why did she shoot Sherlock?” Father asks simply. The quietest person has asked the important question of the evening.

“She wasn't a good person, and she was tangled up with terrible people.” John downs the last of his drink.

“She was involved with Charles Magnussen, and Sherlock was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Mycroft replies coolly. “We can only surmise what might have been if she had been the one to kill him.”

Sherlock hates to wonder the ‘what ifs’ in his life. What if he hadn't left John for two years? What if he had come clean with his feelings before the wedding? What if Mary had killed Magnussen instead of him? The list goes on and on.

“She'd still be alive. Either in jail or on the run with my daughter. She'd still be poisoning my life,” John says bitterly as he pours another drink.

“I think we can agree this subject is closed,” Sherlock states. “I'm alive and moderately well. This house is filled with all the people who deserve to be here this year. That's good enough for me.”

Sherlock clinks his glass against John's. The weak smile he receives in return makes his stomach flutter and his heart race. 

“Fine. Since you're pouring drinks, can you pour me a scotch?” Mummy asks.

John is the first to get a drink for the frayed woman. “I'm sorry if you think I betrayed your son, Mrs. Holmes.”

She sighs with resignation. “I'm sure it couldn't have been easy for you. If she wasn't a very good person, then perhaps it's for the best.”

“Willa is surrounded by the people I want in her life,” John says.

Mummy glances back to her youngest son. “Then she will never want for love.”

An unsettling quiet falls over the study. On cue, Greta brings in the dessert platter. 

“Are you alright dear?” Mrs. Hudson asks John.

He nods, a bit shaky. “Yes, it's fine. I mean, the truth was bound to get out, right? She has every right to be angry. Mary shot her son.”

“I had no idea, John. Why didn't you tell me?” Mrs. Hudson shakes her head.

“Sherlock felt it was best for everyone. Now that she's dead, I guess it doesn't matter who knows.” John shrugs.

“What you boys have been through.” Mrs. Hudson rubs his arm. “It's so good to see you together again.”

Greg clears his throat. “I should be off. I've an early morning. I promised the wif - the ex-wife that I'd be there first thing in the morning.”

Sherlock can't help but glance over to Mycroft, whose mouth turns down instead of the ever present straight line of disapproval. He betrays nothing in his eyes as they remain passive and cold. In fact, he doesn't even raise a hand and Greg slips out the front door to the car waiting to deliver him home safely.

One by one, people leave the Holmes Manor to slip into the cold night. Every guest has a member of Mycroft's security detail drive them home.

John finishes his second glass of brandy and stands. “I'm off to bed. I have no idea when Willa will wake. I swear she can sense the energy and will wake early tomorrow morning.”

Father stands to offer his hand. “Merry Christmas, John.” 

With a genuine smile, John takes Father’s hand for a warm shake. “You too, sir.”

Father’s other hand encloses around John’s. “Please, call me Alistair.”

“Of course.” 

“Good night, dear,” Mummy calls from the chair by the fire. She has slipped off her shoes and extends her feet toward the warm glow. 

“Happy Christmas,” John nods. He pauses beside Sherlock who hovers beside the left over sweets. “Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

Sherlock feels the heat flood his cheeks. “You too.” His smile feels wrong, it's tight and unsure. What he wants is to escape to his room so he can store all his interactions with John in his mind palace. 

John turns to climb the stairs, and Sherlock watches him until he can't see him anymore. He grips his glass of brandy and switches his gaze to his family. Mummy has dozed off after a second glass of scotch. As usual, Father and Mycroft sit in hushed counsel, leaving Sherlock out of the discussion.

“I'm going to bed as well,” Sherlock announces.

“Christmas cheer tire you out, brother?” Mycroft asks. 

“Something like that.” Sherlock unbuttons his jacket. “Tell Mother that I said goodnight.”

A light snore escapes her mouth.

Slowly, Sherlock shuffles up the staircase. He turns his eyes to the floor above him where John sleeps. He wonders if John is in bed, tucked between rich cotton sheets. What might have been his last thoughts before sleep took him. Mary? Willa? The evening's events? Maybe he had thought about Sherlock?

Ridiculous, Sherlock admonishes himself as he angrily strips off his jacket. While John had made some positive statements about being in Sherlock's life beyond the case, hoping for anything else would be preposterous. 

He looks around his cluttered room. It is amazing how similar it looks to Baker Street with its books and papers. Sherlock often wonders if he'll ever return to his home. It's been at least a year since he's seen it. Mrs. Hudson has vowed to keep it untouched, save for dusting of course, for when he comes home. However, Baker Street is only a flat without John. The months he toiled alone after his return had been some of the loneliest - and he had known solitary confinement. 

Angrily, he untucked his shirt. It had been foolish to run to his room. His head is racing and the only thing to quiet it is in the study. He must remember to sneak a bottle of brandy or scotch for nights when he needs to still his mind legally. 

Tossing his shirt on the pile of clothes by his wardrobe, Sherlock contemplates what to do next. Perhaps a hot shower will relax the tight muscles in his shoulders and neck. He kicks off the rest of his clothes and steps into the chilly bathroom. After turning on the taps, he stands in front of the mirror. 

Usually Sherlock avoids mirrors. He knows what he looks like, as he sees it reflected in others’ reaction to him. He is almost used to his face, the new extremely flawed face of pink knotted skin extending across his cheekbone and down the side of his throat. Like this, he can see the ugly scars wrap around his shoulder, down his arm, covering half his chest. While his stomach is still taut, the charred flesh reaches along his side, covering parts of his abdomen, hip and thigh. His fingers trace the ridges and valleys. He can barely feel his own fingers pressing into his hard skin. How would this feel for someone touching him? What would his skin feel like against someone else? He cannot imagine anyone desiring him now. 

Once, he had been beautiful. Men and women both had wanted him. At one time, John had wanted him. Sherlock cannot imagine having someone desire him now, to touch his skin with fingertips or lips. Gradually, Sherlock's reflection disappears in the mirror as the room fills with steam. With a shake of his head, Sherlock pulls back the curtain to step into the hot stream.

* * * * * * * * * * 

 

Freshly showered, and dressed in soft pyjama pants and a well worn t-shirt, Sherlock opens the closet door. Carefully, he pulls out packages wrapped in snowmen covered paper. He might have gone a little overboard with his online purchases. Willa is still too young to appreciate the true greed of Christmas. 

Sherlock piles the presents on his unmade bed before opening his bedroom door. He strains to listen for any kind of chatter downstairs. On the other side of the house, Mummy snores loudly. On the floor above, a television murmurs. John must have fallen asleep while watching, like usual. Sherlock creeps to the top of the stairs to see no light spilling from the study. The house is sleeping.

More lithe and less jolly than St. Nick, Sherlock takes his bundle down to the study. Using only the desk lamp, he distributes the packages under the tree. It takes two more trips to get the job done, to make certain that everything is perfect. He stands back to admire his work when he realises something important is missing. How could Mummy and Father have missed it? They are parents, after all. 

Rushing to to the kitchen, he quietly searches for the mince pie tarts. In the fridge, of course. Sherlock grabs two, one for him and one for Father Christmas. Above him, the ceiling creaks. He looks up knowing that Greta can sense someone in her kitchen. She seems to settle, and all is quiet again. He grabs a plate and returns to the study.

His eyes scan the room for the perfect place. There, by the hearth. Settling into the leather chair, he places the dish with one tart on the table beside him. He pops the second mince pie in his mouth. The rich pastry melts on his tongue. He could never admit it to Mrs. Hudson, but Greta’s mince pie is the best he's ever tasted. It's no wonder Mycroft carries extra weight. Her food is pure heaven. 

Sherlock brushes the crumbs from his lap. As he's about to tuck into the second pie, the front lock clicks and the door opens. Sherlock looks at his watch. It's half twelve. He doesn’t remember seeing headlights pull into the driveway. Quickly, he moves to the other side of the room to not be seen. His mind races. How could anyone slip by Mycroft’s security detail? He looks for a weapon, something heavy and ideally with a sharp point. A vase, mildly effective and probably very expensive. A lamp is too noisy and cumbersome. A heavy silver candlestick will have to do. Pressing himself against the wall, he waits.

Another click, and the door creaks open slowly. He hears the one-two scuff of shoes on the floor, then a rustling of clothes. Sherlock grips the candlestick tightly and raises it eye level. Some more ruffling of clothes, and a sigh. Mycroft?

Sherlock peers around the corner just as Mycroft walks through the entrance of the study.

“Christ!” Mycroft gasps.

“Jesus!” Sherlock cries. “What in God’s name are you doing skulking around outside at this hour?”

Mycroft's cheeks are pink, but not from the cold. 

“You went to Greg’s,” Sherlock says.

“I will not dignify that with a reply.” Mycroft moves to bar to pour a splash of brandy into a glass. 

“I can only imagine what it must have been like to go to his flat.” Sherlock replaces the candlestick on the bookcase.

Mycroft sinks down in the chair opposite him. He doesn't meet Sherlock's eyes, but stares at the brown liquid in the glass.

Sherlock sighs. “Why didn't you just have him stay here? It's not like he's never done that.”

“Can you imagine the fuss Mummy would make? No, I spared everyone that horror show.” Mycroft shakes his head.

“Do you really think our parents haven't sorted out that both their sons are homosexual?” Sherlock cocks his head.

“I suspect that wouldn't bother them, but more who. Gregory has a wife and children.”

Sherlock snorts a harsh laugh. “A wife who has cheated repeatedly. Coming to terms with his sexuality was long overdue. Though I can't believe you were the one.”

Mycroft fixes Sherlock with a glare. “Regardless, tonight was not the night.”

“What are you doing? If it was only satisfying a biological need, you wouldn't have chosen Greg,” Sherlock says.

“And why is that?”

Sherlock leans forward. “He's too close. He is a colleague of mine. In fact, it would make more sense if I had died. You are involved, brother mine.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft warns. 

“You care for him. For once, you have something to lose,” Sherlock continues. 

“Are you attempting to give me advice?” 

“I just don't understand why you sneak around.” Sherlock shrugs.

“Gregory is the lead detective at Scotland Yard. I work with people that look for any reason to destroy me. We will always be required to maintain a low profile,” Mycroft says wearily. “I don't see us walking hand in hand at a Pride parade.”

Sherlock winces at just the thought of Mycroft touching Greg. “No one is suggesting that.” He purses his lips. “For some unknown reason, you of all people have found someone that cares for you. I understand that your lives are not conducive to a relationship, but do not take it for granted.” He looks to the cold fireplace. “You haven't destroyed things yet. Try not to.”

Mycroft sighs. “I could say the same for you, brother mine. He's not here only for his safety anymore. Don't just see, observe.”

Mycroft pats Sherlock’s knee and stands. “Goodnight. You should attempt to get some sleep. It could be a long day.” He grabs the mince pie and takes a large bite before returning the rest to the plate. “Greta is truly a wonder in the kitchen. Less so with the dusting.”

Mycroft leaves the study to retire to his room. Sherlock turns back to the unlit fireplace. The clock on the mantle chimes once for the 1am hour. He rubs his eyes. Though his body is exhausted, his mind races ahead. The evening had been strange and emotionally overwrought. Wearily, he peels himself off the chair to shuffle upstairs to his room. The hallway is dark except for a sliver of light peeking from his doorway. Gripping the doorknob, he pauses to listen to the house. Down the opposite hallway, Mummy still snores. Upstairs, John's television has been turned off. The light under Mycroft's door disappears. Sherlock pushes into his room and closes the door with a quiet click. 

Mycroft's words play over in his mind.

‘He's not just here for his security’. 

Sherlock flops down on his bed without bothering to shed his dressing gown. John had suggested that he might stay, even after the case. Sherlock had heard that correctly? He closes his eyes and walks the halls of his mind.

‘We will be here for as long as we're invited.’

“Willa is surrounded by the people I want in her life.’

Sherlock tries to not read into John's words. Hope can be dangerous to believe in. He needs to focus on facts, not possibilities. 

It's been weeks since he's opened up his old chats from the grief site. Clicking off the lamp beside the bed, only the phone screen lights his face. He goes back to the original thread where he met User 221, a man who had confessed that he had loved a friend who died. 

Sherlock reads everything again. He had looked their chats over after he discovered that Mike was John. Tonight the words read differently. All of them. He reads them once and twice, until his eyes burn. He memorises them until his eyelids grow heavy and he hears the clock downstairs chime four times.

* * * * * * * * * * * 

 

Sherlock is being led down a series of long dark hallways by two burly men in white jumpsuits. He's not resisting or devising a way out of the situation. He hasn't deduced anything about his guards with the tight grip on his arms. He hears nothing but shoes scuffling on the stone floor. They reach a room with a grey steel door. A woman with blonde hair and a pointy face holds a leather bound book just inside the room. 

“Your new Baker Street.” Her lips curl into a spiteful smile. “Oh, Dr. Watson has been placed at a prison up north. Too bad for the little girl. Orphanages can be so cruel.”

Her head tips back for a laugh, but a piercing shriek fills the tiny room, hallways, and every corner of his mind. 

“Wait. He didn't do anything wrong!” 

The door slams in Sherlock's face.

“You can't take her away. She's his life! Wait!” His fists pound on the door. The shrieking laughter fades down the hall.

 

“Sherlock? Are you awake? Sherlock!” John's voice filters through the door.

Sherlock’s eyes blink open. “Yeah...I'm awake.”

John takes this as an invitation and steps inside the room. “Are you okay? You sound winded.”

Sherlock rubs his eyes and feels the sweat on this brow. He glances down to see his phone on his chest. 

“Must have been a dream.” Sherlock pulls himself to a sitting position. 

John hums in agreement. “They can be bastards, dreams. I can't imagine what yours must be like.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “That one was mild. Dark hallways. Locked door. Plenty of subconscious meaning, I'm sure.” He blinks a few times to clear his smoky thoughts. “Is Willa awake? What time is it?”

“It's half eight. She woke at seven, but I kept her in my room until we heard others.” John smiles. “You're the last, sleepyhead.”

Sherlock offers a weak smile. “This is a shock?”

“It looks like someone played Father Christmas last night. Right down to the pie,” John says.

Sherlock’s cheeks warm. “Well, every child should have magic as long as possible.”

“Sherlock, she's nine months.”

“Studies have shown that memory retention in infants…” Sherlock begins.

“You've studied this?” John asks.

“Well, if Willa is going to be living here for an indeterminable time, she should be surrounded by the best environment for her during this formative period,” he explains casually.

John shakes his head with a small smile playing on his lips. “You never cease to surprise me.” 

Sherlock meets John's gaze, and his chest tightens. The anger and betrayal in John's eyes has slowly dissipated over the weeks. Sometimes, a flash of hurt or a side glance that Sherlock can't decipher, but the seething rage has gone. 

“I'll let you get up and ready...stuff,” John says and backs up to the door. “We aren't opening a single present until you're downstairs, though.”

Sherlock slides off the bed. “I’ll pull myself together quickly.”

John stops as he's leaving. “Black and two sugars still?”

“Um, yes.” Sherlock nods. “Uh, thank you.”

He doesn't have the heart to tell John that he's switched to a drop of cream and no sugar.

* * * * * * * * * * * * 

 

Sherlock appears in the study fifteen minutes later with his hair still damp. He's changed into a fresh pair of pyjama bottoms and a royal blue dressing gown. John had always loved Sherlock in blue. His eyes always capture the colour in the most ethereal way. 

“Your coffee.” John points to the desk.

“Thank you,” comes the reply, bordering on tender.

“Did you do this?” Mummy points to the half eaten tart.

Sherlock glances over to Mycroft. “It was a joint effort.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “We're all awake. Let's proceed, shall we?”

“Boo!” Willa calls from John's lap. She holds up the red bow that has fascinated her for the last ten minutes. 

“Here,” John says, “you hold her and I'll unwrap the presents.”

“Oh, okay.” Sherlock folds himself beside John on the floor. 

“Boo!” Willa lays her head on his shoulder and drops the ribbon to play with his curls.

“Ready love?” John grabs the first brightly coloured present.

Willa has more presents than a baby should have for Christmas. Mummy has bought an entire department store worth of dresses and beautiful outfits. On the other side of the tree are the toys to build, push, stack, and cuddle. Willa, of course, waves the paper in her hands. John watches the presents pile up beside him and wonders where everything will go if he returns home. 

If.

He hasn't thought about the home he had shared with Mary much lately. He hasn't stepped foot in the house since moving into the Holmes Manor. It surprises John how quickly he has taken to his new home, and living with Sherlock again.

John watches Sherlock transform around Willa. He laughs easily, that deep rich laugh usually only heard in Baker Street. He explains each toy to her, and she watches him, enraptured. Sherlock Holmes is more affectionate with Willa than Mary had ever been. John wonders what it might have been like if Sherlock had been there when she had been born. 

It strikes John that they appear to be a family. They sit cross legged across from each other in front of a Christmas tree. Sherlock holds Willa while John opens the presents. Mummy snaps several photos on an ancient looking camera. He wishes that Harry and Clara could be here as well. Then everything would be complete. He realizes how odd it is to feel like this so soon after Mary's death.

Sherlock's gifts are science kits for children, books, a telescope, and clothes with either bees or planets and stars. 

“Telescope?” John raises his eyebrows.

“She's incredibly bright. We have to foster her.” He looks embarrassed. “I mean, for you to foster as her father.”

“Oh no. You bought it, you get to teach her that stuff.” John tucks the box back under the tree. His cross voice is more playful than menacing. 

Sherlock barely suppresses his grin. John pulls a large odd shaped parcel toward him. The wrapping is terrible, lumpy with loads of sellotape. John smiles knowing Sherlock probably had uttered a string of swear words as he attempted to wrap it. He digs his fingers into reveal what he had suspected, a large stuffed horse.

“It's ten times bigger than her,” John laughs.

Willa's eyes light up as she reaches for the fuzzy horse.

“The real one is just outside London,” Sherlock drags the horse closer so she can touch the fur.

“Real one?” John frowns.

“Yes, a young mare. Beautiful horse, black with some silver like this one.” Sherlock takes Willa's hands to pet the head between the eyes. “Soft, Willa.”

“A real horse?” John blinks.

“Yes. I would have it here but the stable is useless without a proper place to ride. I considered the stables up north, but that's too far if she wants to ride,” Sherlock explains as if giving horses as presents is as commonplace as stuffed bears.

“She's not even one. What is she going to do with a horse?” John asks.

Sherlock's face falls. “Are you angry? I researched the number one requested gift among young girls, and narrowed it to pony or unicorn. As you know, unicorns do not exist.” Sherlock rambles nervously. “However, there is a cruel website that will actually glue a horn to a pony’s head. We should look into it because it should be illegal.” He takes a breath. “My next option was a pony but they don't have the right temperament, especially for a child. I chose a young mare with an excellent bloodline and breeder. I have been assured this horse has a lovely disposition. They can grow up together.”

Sherlock sneaks a glance to John who only stares with his mouth hanging open. 

“Of course, I will provide lessons and we will keep the horse at our stable. She only needs to come ride her.” He clears his throat.

“Sherlock, you just don't understand moderation,” Mycroft tuts from the sofa.

“Didn't he ask for a pony?” Father asks Mummy.

“Every year until he was ten.” Mummy nods.

“And then you bought one for Mycroft,” Sherlock grumbles.

“It was for polo practice,” Mummy replies.

“I told you that you could ride Aristotle.” Mycroft pops another sticky bun in his mouth.

“Your horse didn't like me,” Sherlock whines. 

“A horse is a great judge of character,” Mycroft quips. 

“Boys! It was over 25 years ago!” Mommy interrupts.

Willa's eyes follow the conversation. She has become very still, sensing the tension from Sherlock. John reaches over and touches the detective’s knee.

“It's a wonderful gift, one that will last many years. Very thoughtful, thank you,” he says.

“It might be a bit over the top with a touch of projection on my part,” Sherlock admits ruefully.

John smirks. “Well, parents always want to give their kids what they never had.”

Sherlock's eyes shoot up with shock. John realises what he’s just said and what it might imply.

“What I mean…” John stammers.

“It's fine. I know you didn't…” Sherlock stumbles over his words.

“For God’s sake,” Mycroft grumbles and heaves himself off the sofa to grab a big packaged label ‘Mummy’. “When you're both done stuttering, let’s finish this before Christmas dinner.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes to mere slits. “You would be more concerned with your next big meal.”

Secretly, John is thankful for Mycroft’s seemingly rude interruption. He has a feeling the elder brother knew exactly what he was doing.

The adult presents are infinitely duller than horses and telescopes. Willa has lost interest and whines for a bottle. John settles on the sofa with Sherlock at his feet still playing Father Christmas and handing out packages. He's surprised that Sherlock manages to appear fairly grateful for new dress shirts (one in a lovely crimson and gorgeous azure sateen) and first edition medical books. 

As the mops of dark curls disappear under the tree, John's stomach ties in knots. When he reappears, he holds a small square box with the tag ‘To Sherlock, Love Willa’. Sherlock cocks his head and looks up at John and Willa. 

“What's this?” He asks.

John smiles. “Willa wanted to give you a present.”

“John, Willa doesn't know it's Christmas,” Sherlock says.

“Just open the bloody present.” John chuckles.

Sherlock takes a breath and carefully slips a long finger under the folder corners of the shiny silver wrapping. He's so meticulous that John wants to grab the package and actually rip it for him. The silver paper falls away to reveal a plain white box. Sherlock glances up, then opens the box.

“What could it be?” Mummy coos.

Sherlock peers inside the box. “A mug.”

“Does it say ‘the world’s most insufferable ass’?” Mycroft sneers.

John shoots a glare in Mycroft's direction that raises his eyebrows.

Sherlock pulls out the black mug, and bites his bottom lip as he turns it over in his hands. He blinks a few times, before looking at John.

“Is it too cheesy?” John asks.

Sherlock's thumb runs over the mug. “Where did you get the photo?” His voice is just above a whisper.

John remembers taking the photo one morning in the kitchen. Willa had been done with her breakfast to the point of tossing it to the floor and letting out a wail. John, exhausted from a long night shift, had been grasping at the last of his frayed nerves. Sherlock had plucked Willa from her chair and had begun to sing softly in her ear. John had recognised it as Blackbird from The Beatles. Willa had sniffled a few times before turning her eyes to meet Sherlock's.

The way the golden rays had framed Sherlock and Willa had been one of the most beautiful sights John had ever seen. While they had been so wrapped up in each other and the song, John had managed to snap a few photos so he could always have that moment.

“It was just one morning. Something about the light and they way you were looking at each other. I know it's not a first edition copy or antique fountain pen…” Suddenly, John feels silly for ever thinking the mug was a good idea. 

“It's perfect,” Sherlock's voice catches in his throat. “Absolutely perfect.” He smiles warmly at Willa who plugs her bottle into her mouth again, yet keeps her big blue eyes on Sherlock. “Thank you Willa.” He swallows. “And John.” Waving his mug proudly he announces, “I will never drink tea or coffee in anything but this again.”

John feels his tense shoulders loosen as he laughs. Willa joins him with her own giggle.

Sherlock stands. “In fact, I'm off to get my second cup of coffee.” He steps around the boxes and scattered wrapping paper when the pocket of dressing gown buzzes.

“Who could that be?” Mummy asks.

Sherlock's frown drops to a look of concern as he looks at the phone screen. “Hello, Lestrade. Calling to wish us a Happy Christmas?” His lips purse. “Hmm.” His eyes flick to John. “Are you sure? For how long?” He sighs. “Yes, of course. We'll be along. Text the address. Right.” He slips his phone into his pocket and pinches the bridge of his nose.

John stands and hands Willa to Mummy. “What's wrong?”

Sherlock scrubs his head. “Dr. Ian has been reported missing.”


	77. Chapter 77

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John watches Sherlock's knee bounce in the car. His fingers worry at the leg of his navy trousers while he chews on the pad of his left thumb. The streets are desolate for a weekday, but it's Christmas morning and most people are still bundled up in pyjamas and unwrapping presents. Meanwhile, John sits in the back seat of a car beside an anxious Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for waiting over a month for a new chapter. It does clock in at nearly 6500 words. Between that and being sick for awhile in March, I fell behind. 
> 
> Thank you to my beta group for their patience and grand editing skills. Callie4180 and 221bjen who are amazing writers (in fact far better) for taking time from their own work to help and encourage me. Irene and fruitbat for being excellent betas and helping with my British-isms. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the people that asked 'Where is the next chapter?' It seriously tickles me that you care enough to ask! I hope that this does not disappoint. I love you all. Every reader makes my day!

John watches Sherlock's knee bounce in the car. His fingers worry at the leg of his navy trousers while he chews on the pad of his left thumb. The streets are desolate for a weekday, but it's Christmas morning and most people are still bundled up in pyjamas and unwrapping presents. Meanwhile, John sits in the back seat of a car beside an anxious Sherlock.

John finally breaks the silence. “How long have you know Ian?” 

“A few months. He assisted with all the autopsies.” Sherlock exchanges a glance in the rearview mirror with Carter.

“How long have you been on this case?”

“I was brought in after the third victim,” Sherlock replies, flatly.

The warm and open Sherlock of this morning is gone, retreated behind the walls of his mind palace. John watches him shrink inside himself and can do nothing about it. 

They had dressed quickly once the call came. Carter had been pulled from his Christmas breakfast to accompany them to the missing doctor’s house. Now the car is filled with a tense silence as Sherlock pulls out his phone to open the GPS tracker.

“What are you doing?”

“Ian disappeared somewhere between Bart’s and his home. According to this, he could have walked home. Maybe if we can find where he was taken from, we can find him in time,” Sherlock says tightly. His hand curls into a fist on his thigh. 

John looks at the balled fist and wants to lay his hand on top. He hasn't seen Sherlock this distraught since Magnussen. That night, he had seen a hopeless Sherlock who had acted desperately. In the last few weeks, Sherlock had been frustrated, but not to this extent. A clock had been ticking with each new victim, and the uncertainty of who could be the next target had lurked in the shadows. Anyone who had ever had contact with Sherlock or John could be a potential victim.

“How long do you think we have?” 

Wearily, Sherlock shrugs. “I'm not certain. The killer doesn't use just one method of killing his victims. The only constant is that the blood is always drained.”

A shiver runs down John's spine. He has forced his mind to look only at the facts, not the details or the human connection. When it slips inside his head, his stomach churns. Mary and Mike had been drained completely of their blood - most likely while partially alive. He only hopes that the victims had not been aware of what was happening to them.

“What do you think he does with it?” 

“The most likely scenario is that he ingests it. Perhaps injects it.” Sherlock considers for a moment. “Maybe experiments, but doubtful.”

John pinches the bridge of his nose. What a way to spend Christmas. 

“Why would anyone want to do that? To people connected to us?” John's voice cracks.

Sherlock looks at him for the first time since leaving the house. “That is the most disconcerting question, isn't it? Why indeed.”

John can tell there is more to Sherlock's train of thought, and that he has uncharacteristically edited himself. He decides to leave it. John can draw his own conclusions from body language and tone. They have become the focus of a twisted individual, and must find him before more people die.

“Try to be gentle. She just thinks her husband is missing,” John appeals.

Sherlock's eyes narrow. “What exactly do you think I'm going to do, barge in with autopsy photos?” He turns to look out the window with an angry huff. “I'm sure Mrs. Ian has read a newspaper in the last few weeks. Lestrade needs to find out who is feeding the press the grisly little morsels for headlines.” He crosses his arms. “And I’m certain that Ian had to explain why a big black car turned up at the front door to whisk him away on occasion. Or why their tax problems magically disappeared.”

John chews on the inside of his cheek. He hasn't seen Sherlock spout off in anger much lately. The detective has been guarded with his words and presence around John. He had felt Sherlock holding back, clamping his mouth shut when he would normally rant. John hides a small smirk. It is nice to see the old Sherlock back in action - even if he had to be the target of a rant. It is the start of something at least.

John shakes his head. Something. What could that be? A friendship? A working partnership? That's impossible. It's clear that there is too much physical tension between them. A hunger that cannot be buried under cases, rants and walking on thin ice. Something is coming to head, John can feel it. Every day, they circle around one another and the circle keeps getting smaller until one day they will meet nose to nose. Then what? 

“We're here,” Carter announces. “Allow me to secure the area before exiting the car.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and clucks with disapproval. “I think our killer already has his hands full.”

Carter turns around and smiles brightly at Sherlock. “Humour me.”

“Fine.” Sherlock rolls one shoulder and glares out the front windscreen.

Carter cocks an eyebrow in John's direction before slipping out of the car. A few seconds later, Sherlock's car door opens. 

“You're ridiculous,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Your brother will eliminate me and my entire family if anything happens to you,” Carter says. 

“Maybe, but it would most likely be my carelessness that would get me into trouble.” Sherlock pauses on the kerb.

John nods. “He's right. He's a careless arsehole.”

The front door of a three storey brick building opens and Greg walks out. “Sorry to interrupt Christmas.”

“It's fine, it's just another day,” Sherlock says waving his hand. 

John and Carter share a glance.

“Yeah well, Mrs. Glenmore is very fragile, Sherlock. So be gentle with her,” Greg orders firmly.

Sherlock frowns. “Who the hell is Mrs. Glenmore?”

“Ian Glenmore’s wife.”

“You didn't know his last name?” John asks.

“We didn't chat or go for coffee, John. I wasn't supposed to exist.” His cheeks flush as soon as the words escape. “I'm sorry...l just-”

“Yeah, I know. We all thought you were dead.” John's jaw clenches. “And if this maniac hadn't started causing trouble, you'd still be dead.”

Sherlock shoves his hands deep into the pockets and looks up at the brick building in front of them. “And you'd still have a wife.”

John sniffs. “Maybe.” He kicks at the pavement and watches a pebble roll into the street. “And maybe not.”

Sherlock's face softens for the first time since Greg's phone call. “Well then,” His eyes flick to Greg who lurks awkwardly on the doorstep. “Shall we go in?”

Greg nods and opens the door. “Remember, go easy.”

Sherlock levels Greg with a glare as he sweeps past him. 

John offers his hand. “Happy Christmas, Greg. Did you get to see the kids this morning?”

Greg smiles weakly. “I did. We were able to get through most of the presents before the call came.” He glances over to Sherlock. “How was your morning?”

John smiles. “Surprisingly good. Wish you'd been there.”

Greg clears his throat. “Why would I -”

John cocks his head. “Greg, I'm not an idiot, despite what Sherlock might say. You think I haven't seen you leave the house at dawn?”

Greg rubs his forehead, anxiously. “Let's go inside. Sherlock shouldn’t be left alone with her.”

John nods and follows Greg inside the house. The front door opens to a staircase littered with children's clothes to the left and a long hallway to the right. John counts five pairs of small shoes scattered along the wall. He's only met Dr. Ian once, at Henry’s autopsy. Framed pictures of the good doctor cover the walls. Ian with a young woman with dark blonde hair. Ian with a beard. Ian holding a newborn, presumably one of his children. Ian in a hideous Christmas jumper. Ian surrounded by three small children.

John walks into a parlour, where Mrs. Ian is sat on an overstuffed sofa with Sherlock crouched before her. He clasps her small hand between his and speaks in a soothing tone John has heard only reserved for Willa. A slightly older and rounder woman stands nearby and John can see the resemblance, an older sister. The hiss and crackle of an inspector’s radio echoes from the kitchen.

“Turn that thing off!” Sherlock snaps.

A few officers exchange glances, then move out of the parlour. In the corner sits an unlit Christmas tree with dozens of brightly wrapped presents under the tree. John wonders where the children have gone.

“Mrs. Glenmore.” Sherlock shifts to sit beside the dark blonde woman. “Did your husband have errands to run yesterday?”

“Diane,” she sniffles. “He said he had some last minute gifts to get. Probably for me. Children were done weeks ago.”

“Where are the children?” John asks.

Diane looks up, startled.

“This is my partner, John Watson,” Sherlock says smoothly. 

Diane nods. “I know. I've seen the articles.” She dabs her eyes with a crumpled tissue. “They're with my parents.” She bites her lower lip. “They’re scared and confused.”

“We're going to do everything we can to find your husband.” John steps forward.

Sherlock shoots him a warning glance. “Let's get back to yesterday morning. Did he hint to where he might be headed? Jewelry store? Beauty counter? What sort of gifts has he given in the past?”

“Umm, I don't know,” she sniffles.

“I need to know where to investigate. Is there a jewelry store he prefers? A shop he typically visits? I need to know where he might have gone when he left work so I can pinpoint when he disappeared,” Sherlock says irritably. “Every second is crucial to finding your husband, Donna.”

“Diane,” John says.

Sherlock levels a glare in John's direction. “What?”

John rolls his eyes and sits on the other side. “Diane...what time did you expect him home?”

“By two. We were going to my parents house for dinner.” She wipes her tears away with the back of her hand. “I tried calling his mobile over and over.”

“Did it ring or go straight to voicemail?” Sherlock asks. He motions for John to take notes. 

“At first it rang a few times, then went voicemail.”

“When did you place the first call?” John asks.

“Probably half two, since he was late. Usually he calls if a last minute case comes in.” Her bloodshot eyes slip to Sherlock.

“Did he discuss his cases with you?” Sherlock asks.

She purses her lips.

“Diane,” Sherlock emphasises for John, “you seem to be aware that he worked with me.”

“Only in the last two months. You know, once the news started reporting these murders. I-I asked because of the strange calls.”

Sherlock's eyebrows raise. “Strange calls?”

“From Mr. Holmes, your brother,” Carter offers. 

Sherlock nods. “Yes, of course. Getting back to now, you said it rang then went to voicemail.”

“But after dark, it went straight to voicemail. What could that mean?” She turns to Sherlock.

“The battery could be drained.” Sherlock places a hand on her arm. “It's important for you to remain calm. I need you to think very hard about any conversations in the last few days of anything suspicious. Strange people in the neighbourhood, or anything out of the ordinary. If you can remember if he mentioned going anywhere, you need to contact me.”

Sherlock fishes a business card out of the inside pocket of his coat. John recognises the font and design from years ago, but a black line covers the mobile number, and is replaced by a new handwritten number. 

Sherlock stands. “Contact me anytime.” His eyes linger on Diane a moment longer before stalking into the kitchen. “I'm going to look around.” 

John stands to follow him. “Dr. Watson,” Diane looks up. “My husband was blackmailed into working with him...at least at first.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” John knows Mycroft must have been behind coercing the good doctor to work in secrecy with a dead man.

“It's just that my husband has trouble with money and we owed a lot in back taxes. Ian told me that his odd hours and the phone calls were taking care of that. He asked me not to question and I tried not to.” She pulls a strand of hair behind her ear with shaky fingers. “Until I saw the news. I managed to put it together.”

John can hear Sherlock talking in the other room.

“Howard, I need you to get information from Ian’s bank.” Pause. The rest of the conversation is muffled as Sherlock moves deeper into the kitchen.  
“It's this killer, isn't it? It's because Ian was involved.” Her eyes well up.

“It's too early to say,” John says softly.

“How did he know Ian was involved?” Fat tears roll down her face.

A silhouette hovers in the doorway. 

“The newspapers didn’t mention his name...I mean, it has to be the same guy, right? I know Ian wouldn’t just run off on Christmas Eve.” Diane buries her face in her hands. The older woman rushes to her side to wrap her arms around Diane. 

Sherlock’s face is pale, almost ashen as he watches Diane sob. His gaze is far away yet still trained on the sofa. He blinks a few times before glancing to the undisturbed Christmas tree with all the unwrapped presents.

Sherlock clears his throat. “Thank you.” He pauses as if he has lost his train of thought. “Diane,” he says deliberately. “We will be in touch.” He sweeps out the door without a glance to John or Greg. 

John nods to Diane before trailing behind Sherlock, who is already outside and pulling at the car door. 

“He’s on fire,” Carter muses.

“He’s something,” John mutters.

“Where are you going?” Greg asks.

“If I have to venture a guess, probably Bart’s. I’ll be in touch. I better go because he will leave me,” John says on the front steps. 

Just then, the back window goes down. “Can you possibly chat later?”

John rolls his eyes. “Someone is back to true form.”

“We’ll catch up later.” Greg nods and retreats back into the house.

Wordlessly, John slips into the back seat beside Sherlock, who taps furiously on the screen of his phone. The morning sun has disappeared behind grey clouds. It feels less like Christmas morning and more like the end of days as they drive through the deserted streets of London. The weather definitely matches the mood inside the car, cold and threatening. 

John has been here before, at least four years ago. Before the fall and Mary, when they had chased Moriarty through London. Sherlock had become withdrawn and become more impatient than usual. And then he was gone. 

“You aren't planning to go off on your own, are you?” John asks, gravely.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock's eyes don't leave the phone.

“When you get quiet, it's usually just a matter of time before you rush off and do something stupid.” John turns to look at him.

“I'm communicating with Howard. He's hacking into Ian's credit cards,” Sherlock replies.

“Sherlock, you know what I mean. We do this together every step of the way. There will be no falls this time. Do you understand me?” John's voice quivers slightly.

Sherlock lays the phone in his lap and turns to John with a defeated expression. “Together.” He nods. His phone buzzes, tearing his eyes from John. “But, you have Willa, and keeping you both safe is my top priority.”

“We're more effective together, you know that,” John says. “And Willa needs you too.”

Their eyes lock. John wants to reach over and pat his arm, leg, something. Just to touch him to reinforce the importance of Sherlock in his and Willa's life. When he had moved into the manor weeks ago, John could not have predicted how easy it would be to fall in step beside Sherlock. 

Sherlock nods once before picking up his phone again, signalling that the conversation is closed. John's eyes linger a moment longer before fishing his own phone from his pocket. No messages. 

How is Willa? - JW

“Who are you texting?” Sherlock asks.

“Greta.”

“Greta doesn't have a mobile,” Sherlock scoffs.

“She does. Your brother wanted me to feel safe leaving Willa at the house. Greta and I text all the time.” John turns his phone for Sherlock as the phone buzzes.

Greta sent an image 

John clicks on the message and brings up an image of Willa surrounded by colourful wrapping paper. Sitting on the floor beside her is Sherlock's father holding a rubber block.

She's an angel - Greta

John’s finger traces the huge smile on Willa's face. “She really loves your parents.”

“She's young. She's doesn't know,” Sherlock murmurs.

“They're family to her now,” John says.

Sherlock's eyes drift up to meet his. “They absolutely adore her.”

The car stops in front of Bart’s. “Though you'll want to object, you're going to let me secure the entrance,” Carter says.

“You do realise that we have no idea what the killer looks like,” Sherlock sighs.

Carter twists in his seat. “Does everything have to be an argument with you?”

“Yes,” John and Sherlock answer, then glance to one another. 

Carter grins warmly. “I received top marks and have my graduate degree in criminal psychology. Can I do my job now?”

Sherlock sniffs. “Fine.”

The corners of John's mouth twitch in a faint smile. Not many people can get Sherlock Holmes to follow direction, yet Carter manages with a quiet voice and amiable smile. When the car door is opened, Sherlock whisks out of the car with a huff. John scrambles to follow. 

Bart's is relatively quiet for Christmas afternoon. The reception area is half filled with a few whimpering children and sullen adults waiting to visit with sick relatives. 

As they stride through the hospital, John can't help noticing the shocked looks on people’s faces when they see Sherlock. He hopes that Sherlock can't hear the whispers after they've passed. He glances at the detective’s determined expression as he glides down the corridors. John can't tell if he's noticed or bothered by the attention. However, John now better understands why Mycroft would want to shield his brother from all this. The public will never look at Sherlock the same again. Now, he will be seen as altered or damaged, and not regarded for his brilliance.

The trip to Bart's takes longer than the search of Ian’s house. While searching Ian’s work locker, Sherlock receives a text from Howard. 

“Howard has confirmed that the last charge on Ian’s card was at a cafe around the corner. He was going to walk home,” Sherlock says. 

“So he was taken between 1 and 2.” John scribbles in his small black notebook. “What if he stopped for coffee before getting into a taxi?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “He would have visited the cafe in Bart’s. Taxis are easier to hail outside a hospital. No, he was definitely on his way home.”

Sherlock fires off another text before he takes off to interview Ian’s colleagues. They visit the security office to view footage of Ian coming to work that morning and leaving later that afternoon. Sherlock's long fingers twist in his hair, and complains that the video surveillance is lacking.

“Look! It's static, doesn't even move!” Sherlock gestures to the camera outside the entrance to Bart's. “One camera with a ridiculously narrow view!”

Sighing heavily, he taps at his phone and brings it to his ear. “Howard? Yes, I need all the footage from the CCTV cameras around Bart's and Ian's house. I'll send you the area coordinates I want covered.” He clicks off his phone without waiting for a response. “Let's go.” 

“Wait, where are you going?” Carter holds up a hand.

“For a walk in broad daylight with a man who is carrying a weapon,” Sherlock says brusquely.

“What?” Carter turns his head to John.

“You do have your gun with you, don’t you?” Sherlock asks John over his shoulder.

John glances around. “Um, I do.”

Sherlock flashes an affected smile. “See? Perfectly safe.”

“You know I can't allow you to do that,” Carter says.

“Ugh!” Sherlock stalks off.

John lays a hand on Carter’s arm. “You know he's going to do what he wants. I'm here, and you follow in the car and watch us. Okay?”

Carter watched Sherlock take off down the street. “Fine, just catch up to him.”

John nods and jogs to fall instep behind Sherlock. 

“I want you document every camera we see,” he announces with his eyes turned up to the sky.

John follows Sherlock up and down the street, looking for any clues. With each step, Sherlock grows increasingly frustrated. He barks orders and swears at Carter who trails them in the car. He has John mark every spot where there is no camera.

“Closed!” He curses as they approach the dark cafe. “Why are they closed on a weekday?”

“It's Christmas, Sherlock. Have you forgotten where you were this morning?”

Sherlock blinks at John a few times as if he has completely lost his mind. “Right, right. Of course.” His shoulders drop in defeat. “Let's go a little further. He couldn't have gotten far from here. Another fifteen minutes, and he would have been home.”

The silence screams in John's brain as they work wordlessly side by side. As the darkness advances, Sherlock stalks into alleyways and overturns rubbish bins. The cold wind rattles John's bones as heavy grey clouds overtake the sun. He can smell the snow coming, a sloppy stinging snow instead of fat Christmas flakes to accent the lights on evergreen trees. The weather matches Sherlock's mood: stormy, dark and unpredictable. 

John checks on Willa as they search. It's her first Christmas, and he's missed most of it. His stomach growls so loudly that Sherlock glares at him. John had grabbed a few biscuits as he ran out of the house after Sherlock, but that had been the only thing in his stomach. 

As the slushy snow collects on the ground, Sherlock turns to John to admit defeat. Ian could have taken many different routes home after his visit to the cafe - many without CCTV coverage. 

“We’ll try tomorrow,” Sherlock announces abruptly and stalks to the car without a glance to John.

With a shrug, John follows. He hopes that they get home in time for him to put Willa to bed. The car is warm and feels heavenly. Carter tosses back a bag of crisps.

“You might need these,” he says.

“You're a godsend, Carter,” John says earnestly, as he tears the bag open. 

Sherlock gives him a long side glance before turning to the window. “You're practically grunting. It's disgusting.”

John digs out five crisps to shove in his mouth. “Most people require food to function. We've been going for hours without a break or anything to eat. I know you run on some kind of mysterious energy, but I need carbohydrates.”

“And sodium, apparently,” Sherlock sniffs.

John's head pounds from the lack of food. “Look, I know you're disappointed but I just spent my daughter’s first Christmas running up and down every dark alley with you. I'm cold, hungry and tired. I don't bloody well need you to criticise me for how I eat a bag of crisps.”

John shakes his head and turns his eyes to the darkened London store fronts. It's the same as last year, leaving his responsibilities to run after Sherlock. Whether it's a pregnant wife or motherless daughter, a life with Sherlock will always mean putting the madman’s agenda before everything. 

He leans his forehead against the cool glass of the window. His poor Willa had been orphaned on her first Christmas. It's doesn't matter that she doesn't realise it, or will even remember it. John knows. 

Out of the corner of John’s eye, Sherlock wraps his coat around him and slumps in the corner. Neither men speaks nor looks at one another. Carter lowers the volume from the radio churning out traditional Christmas carols so that only the sound of the windscreen wipers accompanies the ride home. 

Sherlock barely allows the car to come to a full stop before he tosses the door open to fly into the house. 

“Some things never change,” John mutters as he crumples the empty bag of crisps. 

Carter turns in his seat. “He’s blaming himself for Dr. Ian. You should have seen his face when he saw the kids’ pictures.”

“It’s not his fault,” John says, “or mine.”

“People around him are targets, can’t deny that. I’ve worked with Sherlock for a few months now, and he doesn’t handle that responsibility well,” Carter says.

John rolls his eyes. “That’s an understatement.”

“He feels responsible for your wife’s death and now Dr. Ian. It’s eating him up and he’s frustrated.” Carter sighs. “Try to be patient.”

The pleading in Carter’s tone nearly spikes a hot pang of jealousy through John’s chest. “You really care about him.”

Carter smiles weakly. “We’ve been through a bit, yeah. It’s more admiration than anything, and perhaps I’m a bit protective of him.”

“I see.” John’s jaw clenches. 

“John, you and Willa are his highest priority. Yes, I’m sure he cares about everyone in some way, even Dr. Ian. But when something gets this close, he’s most worried for you,” Carter says. 

John nods slightly, his ridiculous jealousy abating. “Have a good night, Carter. I hope you get to salvage some of your Christmas.”

“I have dinner waiting for me at home. Thank you,” Carter replies. 

John glances at his watch as he slips out of the car. How did it get to be eight o’clock? No wonder he’s famished. Greta greets him in the hall, her apron still on. 

“Did you see Sherlock?” he asks as he closes the door.

“Went straight to his room with not even a word. Is he alright?” Greta’s eyebrows knit together. 

“It was a long and frustrating day.” He glances into the dimly lit and empty study. “Is everyone in bed?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Holmes went to visit a friend this evening. The elder Holmes has been gone since dinner,” Greta replies.

“And Willa?” John knows that she is most likely in bed. 

“I just put her down for the night, I’m sorry. She was so tired after playing with her new toys today. She just went down so maybe check her in a few minutes, let her settle in,” Greta suggests.

“Yeah, I’ll go up in a few.” John rubs his forehead. “I hated not being here.”

Greta touches his arm. “She had Sherlock’s parents here. You had to go.”

He knows that Greta’s words are meant to comfort him, but they grate on his already frayed nerves.

“You must be starving,” she says. 

“I am. Please tell me there is something left over,” John sighs.

She pats his arm. “Let me warm a plate for you.” With a fond smile, she rushes off to the kitchen. 

John isn’t sure if he is more tired or hungry. He shuffles into the study to pour himself a well-deserved tumbler of scotch. All the discarded wrapping paper is gone. In the corner of the study, all of Willa’s presents are stacked in four neat piles. Tomorrow, he will need to find a place for the clothes and the toys. How long will the two of them stay in the manor, and what happens after? John has thought about selling the house he had with Mary. Too many ghosts haunt every room, especially the kitchen where they had had their last fight. Over Sherlock. Always over Sherlock. 

John sinks into the sofa beside the darkened Christmas tree. Suddenly, he has a need to see the light lights twinkle and blink. He flicks the switch beside the sofa and the tree springs to life with all the colours of the rainbow. 

Today had been a reminder that life with Sherlock is about compromise, whether it be personal space or freetime. Despite whatever trials Sherlock has lived through, he will always be impulsive and take unnecessary risks to get what he wants. At one time, John had thrived on the energy and thrill of the unknown. Now, he is a father, the only parent for the little girl. While a part of him still wants to follow Sherlock into the fires of hell, he has Willa and his world revolves around her. Solving this ‘case’ will keep her and everyone she has come to love safe - including Sherlock.

John takes a long sip from his glass. The scotch burns his mouth and throat. He can't have both, he knows this. Sherlock is too unpredictable, too impulsive. He can't have Willa come to rely on Sherlock only to have him disappear again. 

John's phone buzzes in the front pocket of his jeans. Fumbling to get it out, he sees Harry’s name float on the screen before it drops to carpet and slips under the tree. As he crawls under to retrieve it, he spots a small square box shoved toward the back, wrapped in shiny gold paper with a small red bow on top. He reaches under to grab it. How did this get forgotten?

Settling back in the sofa, he reads the small tag.

To: John

From: Sherlock 

In all the years he's known Sherlock, he has never received a gift from the detective. At least not a proper gift. Announcing on Christmas Eve that he's gone ahead and bought milk from the shops doesn't exactly count as a gift from Sherlock. John considers replacing the gift. If Sherlock really wants to give it, then let him retrieve it and make a presentation of it. Just as he's about to crawl back under the tree, he pauses. 

“Bugger, it has my name on it.” 

John's fingers dig into the creased edges to reveal a plain white box. Carefully, he slips the top off to discover a small item wrapped in a silk handkerchief. Beside the maroon fabric, is a small piece of paper. John unfolds to see ‘a way to find home’ written in Sherlock’s scrawl. 

John's heart thunders in his ears as he gingerly unwraps an antique silver disc with an intricate and beautiful design. He pushes the gold button on the side, and the top pops open to reveal a compass. The glass has a scratch, and is a little yellowed from time. John turns it over in his hands to see some dents and scratches across the smooth back. He doesn't care why Sherlock gave him a beaten up compass, of all things. It's the most beautiful hunk of silver he's ever seen, he feels a stinging in the corner of his eyes.

Impulsively, he hops off the sofa and heads for the stairs. He gives no thought to the possibility that he could be interrupting. He rushes up the stairs only to pause in the hallway that leads to Sherlock’s bedroom. He's out of breath, and it's not from exertion. Taking a deep breath, he raps lightly on the door. No answer. John knows that Sherlock is not asleep; he can go another twenty-four hours before collapsing - maybe longer with this case. He knocks a bit harder the second time.

“What!” Sherlock barks.

John opens the door to find Sherlock sat at his desk, glaring at his laptop. His head snaps in John's direction, and the edges of his scowl softens slightly when he sees the doctor in the doorway.

“I, uh…” John shuffles inside the room. “I found the present.”

Any trace of frustration or annoyance evaporates from Sherlock’s face. “Oh, right. Your gift. Well I-” His eyes drop to the compass in John’s hand.

“It’s beautiful, Sherlock. I certainly didn’t expect - I mean - we just got you a lousy mug,” John shifts awkwardly. He can’t bring himself to look directly at Sherlock for fear that the contents of his heart will be broadcast in his eyes. 

“I adore that mug,” Sherlock states. “I know my past gifts have been...”

John chuckles. “Nonexistent.”

Sherlock frowns. “Really? I’m sure I must have given you something…”

“You brought home milk one year. That was very special.”

Sherlock grins. “Then I guess this is overdue.”

John’s thumb runs over the ornate etching on the lid. “Where did you get this?”

Sherlock’s eyes drop to his socked feet and takes a deep breath. “When I went away to dismantle Moriarty’s crime web, I went deep and sometimes rural. I didn’t always have access to a phone, and worked off coordinates.” He rubs the back of his neck. “While traveling through Budapest, I happened to pop into an antique shop where I saw this exquisite compass.” He shrugs. “I don’t know why I felt the need to purchase it. In fact, I don’t think I ever thought I would actually use it, but I did - a few times.” He bites his bottom lip. John notices a slight tremble in his right hand. “During my various assignments abroad, I kept this compass in my left pocket. In Serbia, anything on my right was destroyed. My clothes, my phone...my skin.” Pause. “But the compass was unharmed.”

“Sherlock…” John’s voice shakes.

Sherlock smiles weakly. “You think it is a peculiar gift.” His eyes lock on John. “I am giving it to you because I do not require it anymore. I am home and I am staying home. This is my promise, to you and to Willa.”

John cannot move. His legs and arms have gone completely numb. What he had considered a unique gift has so much more depth and meaning, everything has gone static. He is divided between running out the door and running to throw his arms around Sherlock to kiss him until his lungs burn for oxygen. 

Pursing his lips, he nods. “It’s lovely, really.” He clears his throat. “Thank you.” His eyes dart around the room. “So, what are you working on?”

Sherlock seems relieved to change the subject. Turning back to his laptop, he motions John closer. “Howard has been sending me feeds from all the CCTV cameras around Bart’s and surrounding neighbourhood.”

“How many are there?” John asks, hoping Sherlock cannot hear his heart pounding. 

“I’ve only received three feeds thus far. At last count, he had fifteen.”

John runs his fingers through his hair. “Christ, that will take forever.”

Sherlock glances over his shoulder. “Best get some rest then.”

“What about you?” His eyes scan Sherlock’s inner sanctum. Much like Baker Street, it is cluttered and disorganised. 

“I’ll nap in a few hours. It’s only half eight.”

The easel by the window catches John’s eye again. The naked back is marred by lines and different shadows. Some of the lines are thick and angry while others are wisps overlaying one another. They stretch from the waist to across the shoulders. A small star is marked just under the right shoulder blade - a bullet or knife wound? It’s when John’s eyes take in the entire drawing that he recognises the back of the head because he is standing directly behind it. The dark curls, even the way the body and neck tilt are so familiar to John. He suppresses a gasp. Is it an abstract view of how Sherlock sees himself, or a true self portrait? 

John thinks back to the last time he has seen Sherlock’s naked torso. It had been before the fall, before the two years of loneliness. Sherlock running from the bath with a towel clutched to his wait. The sheet at Buckingham palace. His long muscular back had only been mottled with freckles and moles - not even a scratch or dry patch. 

“John?” Sherlock twists around. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

He blinks a few times and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, I just zone out for a bit. I haven’t eaten and my blood sugar is very low.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You’ve gone longer without food. Must be age.”

John taps Sherlock’s shoulder playfully, but notices that he stiffens under the touch. Years ago that sort of invasion of space would have been normal. Sherlock is not as tactile as he used to be.

“You should eat too, you know.”

Sherlock waves him off. “I’ve too much to do. The clock is ticking and the snow will cover up any evidence.”

Despite the physical awkwardness, John rests his hand on Sherlock’s right shoulder and squeezes gently. Even through two layers of fabric, the skin feels stiff, but he does not remove his hand until Sherlock’s shoulder relaxes. 

“Can I please send Greta up with tea and some biscuits or toast?”

He feels Sherlock lean into the touch ever so slightly. “Mince pie. I’d like a mince pie.”

“Okay, I can arrange that. I’m going to check in on Willa and eat some dinner.” Begrudgingly, he moves to the door. It had felt nice to be close to Sherlock again. 

“John,” Sherlock looks up. “I’m sorry you missed Willa’s first Christmas.”

John smiles gently. “I’m sorry you did too.”

 

With a heavy and full heart, John climbs the stairs to Willa’s room. His head swims with everything from the day, especially the last twenty minutes. He clutches the compass tightly as he thinks of what Sherlock has been through. How could he know? Sherlock had never talked about his time away, and truthfully John had felt so much resentment that he never asked. He’s certain that Sherlock would have lied or at least downplayed it.

Quietly, John creeps into Willa’s room. Dressed in a fuzzy snowman sleeper, she snoozes on her back with arms stretched over her head. A small sigh escapes from her perfect bow mouth. John’s entire being fills up with so much love that his eyes fill with tears. Yes, Willa is motherless, but is surrounded by so much love. Far more love than Mary could manage on her own. 

‘A way to find home...’

“I am home and I am staying home. This is my promise, to you and to Willa.”

Sherlock wants John and Willa, it’s very clear to John. Despite his gruffness and complete lack of awareness, Sherlock loves them both. John does not need to hear him say those words as he shows it in everyday gestures. The way Sherlock gazes at Willa expands John’s heart beyond his ribcage. How could he ever take that away?

Gently, John runs his finger over the silken curls on Willa’s head. If John stays, it has to be for good. Together, they need to make this right and lay it all out. They must unpack the years of hurt, resentment and yearning to forge something new - something unbreakable. John smiles, Something incredible.


	78. Chapter 78

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's still Christmas on the other side of town.....
> 
> Samantha eases back into the chair and pats her belly. “Sebastian, that was delicious.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I want to apologize for taking so long for so little. I got tangled up with work items (review season here) and a prompt that went to 12,000 words long. I am already thinking of the next two chapters, and where the story takes after 79 and 80. So thank you for being patient, and I hope I have not lost you all in my tardiness. 
> 
> Thank you to my beautiful betas who make the words flow better than I do. Callie4180, 221bjen, Irene and fruitbat - you are all invaluable!
> 
> Thank for you reading and the lively discussions in the comments section. It truly makes my day when I see a comment.

Samantha eases back into the chair and pats her belly. “Sebastian, that was delicious.”

“Do you want more?” he asks.

“I don't think I could fit another bite.” Samantha smiles.

“Okay then.” Sebastian nods and plucks her plate from the coffee table. He adds it to the pile of washing stacked beside the sink.

“Seb, we have a dishwasher. You don't have to wash them by hand,” Samantha calls.

He turns to lean against the counter. “The pots from dinner take up too much room. It's fine. It’s relaxing.”

He sees her forehead wrinkle into a small frown, but she settles back into her chair instead of continuing.

Sebastian carefully folds the sleeves of his shirt back to the elbows in even creases. Turning to his organised pile of dishes, he begins with the dinner plates. He washes with slow circles, starting at the centre of each plate to move to the edges. With a different flannel, he rinses the soap off in cool water before placing the plate in a wooden rack. As he works, he hums his favourite classical music piece, Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.

Once Sebastian finishes with the dishes, he wipes every surface clean with a fresh sponge. When he's done, the kitchen is as tidy as the morning. Samantha snores lightly from her chair. With a gentle smile, he touches her shoulder.

“Sam, go to bed,” he says.

She jolts awake. Her face relaxes when she sees Sebastian. “I can't believe I dozed off.”

“You were snoring. That's a bit more than a doze. Go to bed. Everything's clean.”

Samantha stretches her arms. “I think I will. Do you mind? It's Christmas, after all.”

“It's nine o’clock. Christmas is officially over. Go on, I’ll be turning in soon.” He offers his hand.

She hugs him with an extra squeeze before she pulls back. “Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas, Sam.”

One last stretch and Samantha climbs the staircase toward her room. Sebastian clears her teacup to the kitchen and busies himself with arranging newspapers and magazines. He picks up odds and ends, shuffles between the rooms as he listens to the pipes of their house groan while Samantha washes up from the day. Hearing her settle into bed, Sebastian turns off the table top Christmas tree in the corner. He checks the three locks on the front door and the two on the back door, and moves through the kitchen and living room clicking off lights. 

With one more glance to be certain everything is settled, Sebastian climbs the stairs. The bathroom is at the very top, with Samantha’s room to the left and his to the right. Before he came home, Samantha had used his room as a home office. Her old desktop still sits in the corner on their father’s old metal desk, gathering dust. Sebastian had used it when he first returned, but prefers his laptop now. 

He slips off his shoes and places them back in line beside his trainers and a pair of worn work boots. His socks are tossed in a small basket filled with nothing but socks, beside a basket with pants. His darks and whites are separated in two larger baskets. 

His room doesn't open into the bathroom like Samantha's, and he pads barefoot across the cold wood floor to the bathroom for his evening wash. Meticulously, he cleans the dirt and bits of food from under his nails. With a flannel, he wipes his face in small circles from his forehead down. He considers a shower, but he doesn't want to wake Samantha. After flossing and brushing his teeth for ten minutes, he washes his hands one more time before returning to his room.

Slowly, Sebastian had claimed this room as his own by moving his books from the attic to the two bookshelves by the door. He's read all of them, mostly mysteries or crime novels. Every so often, he might pick up an interesting biography. He has a pile of books he's yet to read by his bed. One day, he'll need a place of his own for all his books. A library would be nice. One day.

He strips off his jumper, a present from Samantha, and folds it into the darks basket. Sebastian keeps a tidy room; it's the least he can do for Samantha taking him in. Without her, he'd be living on the street with the other veterans who had returned from war just a bit quirky. His sister has always been patient with his quiet moods. He thinks she prefers him now to his younger gregarious self.

Out of habit, he still goes to bed with boxers and a vest, as he did while serving his country. His bed would still pass the strictest inspection, the sheets and grey wool blanket pulled taut enough to bounce a coin. Samantha had tried to make his bed with lush Egyptian sheets, but he had insisted on 180 polyester thread count. Scratchy sheets washed in bleach and strong detergent are home to him.

Once Sebastian is tucked in his bed, his fingers dig in between the mattresses to pull out his laptop. Laying it on his lap, he pulls out a USB stick. He listens for a moment, taking in the silence of the house, before plugging it in.

His laptop jumps to life and opens a small black screen. Sebastian types in a series of letters, numbers and characters, and a new window pops up. The video feed is grainy with a green night vision hue. He squints to watch the man on a hospital bed with clear tubes hooked to his right arm and dark tubes from his left. A plain white sheet is tucked tightly around the man. Lights from three different machines blink. Sebastian frowns as the tubes move slightly. The man in the bed twitches, his fingers clutch at the white sheets. Sebastian grabs his phone from the stack of books by his bed. With a few flicks, he watches the levels on the machine on the right move from two lights to five. Within 90 seconds, the man’s fingers go slack.

 

Sebastian opens another application and types in SAMANTHA. A second video feed opens on the front gates of the Holmes Manor. 

PASSWORD REQUIRED 

Sebastian chews on his bottom lip. Someone is one step ahead of him on the Holmes security detail. He types in an obvious choice.

SHERLOCK 

ACCESS DENIED 

Sebastian thinks for a moment.

MYCROFT1

ACCESS DENIED 

He grits his teeth as he attempts a few more passcodes. Mycroft Holmes has definitely brought someone new onboard. With a sigh of resignation, he closes the window to the Holmes Manor to watch the man on the bed. No movement, and all vitals are stable. Sebastian sets an alarm on his phone to administer another dose of the sedative in four hours before closing all the windows and erasing the history from his laptop. He tucks both the computer and USB between his mattress and box spring. 

He lays in the dark and listens to the creaks and groans of the house. The rubbish bins next door rattle as a neighbor tosses one large bag inside. Sebastian smells the smoke from the man’s cigarette seep through the window. He folds his hands over his stomach and hums ‘You are Always on My Mind’ as he drifts off to sleep.


	79. Chapter 79

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dawn begins to break in the eastern sky on New Year’s Eve morning as the car pulls up to the Holmes Manor.
> 
> “I'm sorry you had to get up so early,” John says to Carter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your patience. Let me warn you, this chapter was supposed to be bigger but I had to cut it half to save my own sanity. Summer is busier than any other season and I just have not had any time for myself. In the spirit of full disclosure, I have been suffering crippling writer's block and painful self-doubt - which make awful bedfellows. This chapter has been mode possible by my betas who took my gooble-gook and made it readable. I seriously hope the next few chapters come a bit easier. 
> 
> Thanks to fruitbat, callie4180 and 221bjen for their patience as they listen to me whine and then take my scrawl to make something decent. 
> 
> Thank you to my readers (if they are any left) for waiting for any updates. Trust me, the fact that you care means everything and keeps me going when I want to tear it down and burn the entire thing.

Dawn begins to break in the eastern sky on New Year’s Eve morning as the car pulls up to the Holmes Manor.

“I'm sorry you had to get up so early,” John says to Carter.

“I'm glad you called,” he responds and looks across to John, who nods and tries to ignore the queasy exhaustion in his stomach. Since Dr. Ian’s disappearance, tensions have been high. 

Carter nods toward the house. “He's still up.”

John rubs his eyes. “That's not a surprise.”

“He feels responsible,” Carter says, somberly. 

“We both do.” John wants only to drag himself upstairs Hopefully Greta will get up with Willa so he can have 2-3 hours of sleep before diving back into the hours of CCTV footage.

Carter sighs. “He thinks he should have solved it by now.”

John glances over to agent. “Did he tell you that?”

Carter smiles weakly. “Not in so many words. Before this assignment began, I was handed a file about ten centimetres thick along with your blog entries.”

“You studied him.”

Carter gives a slight nod. “I knew it would be a tough assignment.”

“Not as tough as a frontline medic though,” John offers.

Carter chuckles. “I'll give you that. But he's a genius, which makes him insufferable and dangerous. Most geniuses have no concept of their own limits.”

John gnaws on his bottom lip. “No, they don't. We're the ones pulling them back from the edge.”

“We are.”

“I'll check on him before I go upstairs.” John opens the passenger door. “If I don't see you, Happy New Year.”

“You too, John.”

Before John had gotten in the car to go home, he had known Sherlock would be up all night - yet again. He's certain the detective might have slept a total of four hours since Christmas. Years ago, Sherlock could go almost two weeks without a proper night’s sleep, yet still function and even be moderately civil. However, the last few days of working beside Sherlock had been impossible. Long stretches of silence, punctuated with bouts of mumbling to himself; Sherlock had never done that before. John wondered if it was a symptom of the head trauma, or from being alone for so long. 

When Sherlock was snappish and impatient, he looked miserable and contrite moments after. He would retreat then to his bedroom for hours. John knew every hour that passed was driving Sherlock mad, as he had watched the footage, and combed the street for any clue as to how, when and who.

John enters the house quietly, and his heart sinks when he sees the glow from the study spilling into the atrium. Perhaps Sherlock has fallen asleep on the sofa. He slips his shoes off and tucks them under his arm, but his hopes are dashed by the erratic clicking of a keyboard. Sherlock is reviewing the CCTV footage yet again. 

“Sherlock,” he says sternly. “You need to sleep.”

Sherlock’s eyes don’t leave the computer screen. “You were meant to text when you left.” His voice is rough from exhaustion.

“I was hoping that you'd be sleeping,” John leans against the doorway. If he enters the study, it will be hours before he gets to sleep. He curses himself for not just breezing up the stairs, but somehow Sherlock always comes first. 

“I can’t sleep. I won’t sleep.” Sherlock chews on his bottom lip. 

“We both know you won’t get anywhere this knackered. Your brain can’t….” 

Sherlock spins around in his chair. “My brain hasn’t been right since the blast. We both know that.”

Sighing heavily, John trudges into the study. “You make it sound like you have a 100% success rate before the blast. Do I need to remind you of all the unsolved cases we had?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Was that an attempt to make me feel better? Your bedside manner leaves much to be desired.”

John places his hands on the desk and leans closer. “I am reminding you that you are human.”

Sherlock turns away to the left. “I am fully aware. In fact, I have never been more human.” He grits his teeth. “Some days, I can’t organise my thoughts the I way used to.”

“Sherlock, we’ll find this bastard. You once said that most serial killers make a mistake because deep down they want an audience,” John says. 

“Who dies in the meantime? Ian is already dead.” Sherlock shrugs in frustration. 

“You don’t know that.” John shakes his head.

“Victims are only kept alive for 7 days at most, and only because he has finally perfected draining their blood while keeping them alive through chemistry.” Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. “If he’s not dead already, he will be very soon, and I am no closer to finding him than I was Christmas Day. This murderer has found a way to move through the streets undetected.”

John walks to the evidence wall. “He follows our cases, right? Taxi. He drives a taxi! It’s how he manages to get away, right?”

Sherlock blinks and turns to the wall. “It’s not the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”

John rolls his eyes. “I’ll try not to get a big head about it.”

‘Dada! Dada!” A tiny voices floats down the staircase. 

“Shit. I was hoping to get a few hours,” John mumbles wearily.

“I can take her until Greta is ready. She’ll be awake soon.” Sherlock offers. 

“You need to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep now. I’ve too much to do. This might be the first real lead we’ve had. How can you sleep?” Sherlock asks.

“Because unlike you, I am not a machine that runs on caffeine and adrenaline. I have tried to keep pace with you, but I can’t. I’m old, I’m a father.” John tries to stifle a yawn. 

“Get some sleep, John. I’ll tend to Willa. She’s smarter than you anyway.” Sherlock cracks a weary smile.

“Sod off,” John grumbles with no malice.

With a grin, Sherlock bounds upstairs with unfathomable energy. John feels as though he is dying - a pounding head and every muscle aches. He hopes that Sherlock’s zeal comes from a possible break in the case and nothing chemical. 

“Boo!” John hears his daughter shout with glee as Sherlock enters her bedroom. 

“Good morning, little one.” The fondness in Sherlock’s voice causes John’s insides to ache. 

“Boo! Boo. Mornun.” 

Every day, Willa adds new words to her vocabulary. Sherlock has stated that she’s the smartest baby he knows, but how many children does he know? Yet, Sherlock has read multiple articles on child development. John has seen the browsing history on the laptop in the study. Christ, Sherlock researches more about the topic than he does - and Willa is his daughter. 

“Dada?” she asks.

“Shh. Dada is sleeping. He had a very long night, so I will get you breakfast. Is that agreeable with you?” 

“Dada…” she whines.

John calls from the edge of his bed. “You can bring her in. She probably just wants a kiss.”

“We’ll go see your father when we’ve changed that odious nappy.” Sherlock’s tone is light and playful - two things John would have never considered of Sherlock. 

John stretches out on the bed without bothering to undress. His eyes slide closed with another yawn. Sherlock's voice floats in from Willa’s room. John hears Willa’s giggle and Sherlock begin to sing in French. Of course he would do that, posh bastard, John smiles fondly. He doesn't realise that he as drifted off to a deep sleep.

 

John's face feels too warm. In fact, he’s too hot, almost smothered. His eyes blink against the bright sunlight streaming into his room. His dress shirt is damp from sweat, rumpled from sleep. Someone, maybe him, had covered him as he slept. Kicking off the covers, he rubs the sleep from his eyes. The numbers on the nightstand flash from 11:59 to 12:00. 

Jesus, it's lunch time.

John's stomach turns in hunger as he scrambles out of bed. He’s sweaty, hungry, groggy and feels like he might be sick. Before going downstairs to face Willa, Sherlock and whoever else might be around, he needs to scrub the sweat and sleep off him. He definitely cannot keep up the hectic pace of late nights scouring evidence while trying to be a single father during the day. 

John stands in the hot stream of water, allowing it to turn his skin pink. What would he do if he had not happened upon Mike’s autopsy? What would his life be like without this case and Sherlock in it? He would be just a single father - working, struggling alone. Sherlock wouldn’t be singing to Willa in French while changing her nappy. Greta would not be making gourmet baby food and making Willa laugh. John would be living in the shell of a home he had built with Mary, wishing that he had been brave enough to tell Sherlock how he felt. He would be hollow and alone. The Holmes Manor has provided safe haven in unimaginable measures, and possibly a future for Willa and himself. 

Freshly showered and dressed in clean clothes, John trots down the stairs to find the study empty. Nothing has changed since he went upstairs six hours ago. The papers lay undisturbed and the laptop holds the same frozen image of the street outside the hospital, the same image that Sherlock had been flicking through when John had entered. 

John wanders into the kitchen to find Willa in her chair, covered in orange mush. “Dada!”

“Oh my...what do we have here?’ he smiles. 

Greta turns from the sink. “Carrots. She loves to eat them, and paint with them.”

“Thank you for taking her, Greta,” John says.

“Sherlock had her most of the morning.” John notices a sly grin on her thin lips.

“Where is he? Did he go out?” John spots Sherlock’s mug on the counter. True to his word, Sherlock will not take his tea in anything but Willa’s mug. 

“He went to bed, finally,” Greta sighs in relief. “He started to fall asleep with the baby when I told him to go to bed. He’s been asleep for three hours.”

“Is he asleep or just working in his room?” John pours coffee into a large mug.

“Sleeping. I checked. He’s snoring like a saw.”

“Good, he needed it.” He glances around the kitchen. “What do we have for lunch?”

 

Sherlock emerges three hours later, a bit more rumpled and his mood immensely darker. He doesn't make eye contact as he sweeps into the kitchen to pour coffee into his mug. Without a single word, he slips into the study.

Greta and John exchange a raised eyebrow. 

“Can you take Willa?” he asks.

“Of course.” She pauses. “Your old housekeeper left a message that she might be by later to see you and Willa.”

“Don't let her hear you call our housekeeper.” John pours a cup of coffee. “She was our landlady.”

John wonders what has become of 221B in their absence. Has she dusted, or does it resemble the museum it had become after Sherlock’s fall? Nothing moved but inches of dust on the furniture and shelves. 

Greta looks down the hall to the study. “Would that be a bad idea?”

John shrugs. “There's no telling. Mrs. Hudson will be here to see Willa. Sherlock and I are incidental.”

He takes a deep breath before moving to the study. Sherlock's face is buried inside his laptop. 

“Finally,” Sherlock huffs. “We have important work to do. Socialise with Greta another time.”

John attempts to be cheerful. “I have my coffee. What next?”

Sherlock pushes away from the laptop. “Make a list of every car service and taxi company. We will need to visit every single one.”

“For?”

Sherlock sighs heavily. “Honestly John. You haven't picked up one morsel of good sense in all the years we've been together.” He is very still and brittle looking. “Worked together.” A pause. “You've learned nothing.”

John allows that conversation to drop and moves in front of the laptop. “You need me to complete this list then.”

Sherlock stands in front of the wall where Dr. Ian’s name and last seen location have been pinned next to Henry’s photo and autopsy file. 

“I'll call Lestrade. As much as it pains me, I will need his assistance. The two of us can't possibly cover that list.” Sherlock folds his arms. 

 

They work in tandem, like the old days. It's as if the last two years have peeled away. John anticipates Sherlock’s movements and outbursts. For his part, Sherlock is acerbic, self absorbed and at times, an utter cock. If they weren't desperately searching for Dr. Ian’s whereabouts, John would almost be enjoying himself. He could forget the weight pressing in his chest with all the things that are unsolved around them. Another day, John decides. They have more important things to deal with first. Perhaps when this madman is caught, or better yet, dead, they can sit by the fire and unpack everything they have both pushed deep down.

 

Supper time comes and goes. Despite Sherlock's grumbling, John takes a break to eat dinner with Greta and Willa. He ignores Sherlock's sighs as he climbs the stairs with Willa to bathe and put her to bed. When John returns forty-five minutes later, Sherlock’s hair is twisted every which way. The frown lines are deep set and he worries at the sleeve of his dressing gown.

“You need to eat. I'm having Greta make you something,” John says.

“No John, what I need is for you not to lollygag about when we have important work to do,” Sherlock snaps.

John clenches his fist. “Willa is more important than work to me. You'd better get that perfectly clear if this is going to work.”

The scowl of Sherlock's face transforms into a look of surprised confusion. With fluttering eyes, he opens his mouth to sputter a response when the door opens. Both heads turn to see Mycroft shake a cold drizzle from his coat. While he never had looked like a well rested man, Mycroft appears almost bedraggled. He swipes a hand over wispy hair as he removes his jacket. The top two buttons of his white shirt are undone and his tie loosened. John has never seen Mycroft look so disorganised.

Sherlock also takes notice of Mycroft's appearance and something dark sparks in his eyes. “I can see why Detective Inspector Lestrade hasn't returned my messages.”

Mycroft sighs heavily. “Must you be so indelicate, Sherlock.”

John suspects that Mycroft's state has more to do with Sherlock than Greg. 

“We've had a possible break in the case,” John offers.

Mycroft wearily shifts his gaze to John. “Yes?”

“We're researching taxi companies, like the Study in Pink case,” John says.

Mycroft quirks an eyebrow. “Ah yes, your first case together.” John senses a hint of condescension. “Do you have any evidence showing the victims were obtaining transportation?”

“It would be a brilliant way to move bodies about the city,” Sherlock muses. He stands before Mary’s photo. “We know that Mary disappeared the night she left John, most likely in a taxi.”

John gnaws on the inside of his bottom lip. He hates remembering the night she stormed out of his life and into a killer’s grasp. 

Sherlock taps on Mike Stamford’s photo. “It's abundantly clear Mike used taxis often by his sheer girth. Dr. Ian could have decided to take a cab to get home sooner.”

“What's your next step?” Mycroft asks.

“We need to see the driving records for all these taxi and car service companies.” Sherlock plucks the list off the desk.

Mycroft's eyes scan the list before looking back to Sherlock. “That will be quite an undertaking.”

Sherlock tosses the list onto the desk. “That's why I need your ‘boyfriend’ to assist.” He shrugs. “No matter. When he can get around to it.”

Mycroft takes a deep breath to carry his retort, but just lets out a sigh instead. He's too weary to argue tonight. The defeatist attitude worries John. Sherlock might not be concerned with the enemies Mycroft had mentioned but John wonders what other threats lurk.

“Greta has a plate for you,”John offers gently. He sees Sherlock glare in disapproval.

“Thank you John,” Mycroft says pointedly. “Perhaps later. Excuse me.”

Mycroft has barely left the room before Sherlock rounds on John. “Would you like to warm Mycroft's dinner?”

John pinches the bridge of his nose. “Christ, Sherlock, can't you see he's had a rough day?”

Sherlock digs in his heels. “Rough day?” He's set to launch into a tirade worthy of an old fashioned Sherlock strop when his phone rings. “Oh finally, the good inspector has decided to grace us with his attention. Oh hello, Lestrade. I see you managed to tear yourself away from Candy Crush.” 

Sherlock's scowl dissolves quickly into despair. He bites his bottom lip as he listens to Greg’s end of the conversation. John's stomach knots as Sherlock's shoulders, squared for a fight, drop.

“Where?” Sherlock asks. His eyes shift to John. “Yes, we're coming.” He pockets his phone in the front pocket of his pants.

John takes in a sharp breath. “Ian?” 

Sherlock nods once. “They found his body in the dumpster behind the cafe near the hospital.”

“The one he visited on…”

“Yes, that one.” Sherlock sheds his dressing gown and leaves it crumpled on the floor. “Let's go. They won't move him until we see the scene.”

John follows Sherlock out of the study. “Should we tell Mycroft?”

“I'm certain he knows.” Sherlock pulls on his coat and waits for John before flying into the awaiting car outside.


	80. Chapter 80

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sees the floodlights from two blocks away. Behind the yellow police tape, reporters mill about in search of a source.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your infinite patience. I hope that with school starting that I have more time to write. It's not a long chapter, but the next promises to be longer and will hopefully not take me over a month to get out. However, it is a turning point so....
> 
> Thank you to my editors for their patience and encouragement.Their guidance, support and friendship sees me through self doubt and writer's block. Both Callie4180 and 221bjen are excellent writers (in fact better than me) and you should read their fics.

Sherlock sees the floodlights from two blocks away. Behind the yellow police tape, reporters mill about in search of a source. Greg ducks under the tape to bark at them and they scatter, only to return a few moments later. As the car pulls to the kerb, their heads whip around as if they can smell Sherlock's approach. He pulls the collar up around his face. To his left, John’s hand curls into a fist.

“Vultures are here,” he mutters.

“You owe vultures an apology.” Sherlock doesn't wait for his detail to open the door. The heavy set man with garlic breath swears under his breath and tumbles out of the car to scurry after the lithe detective.

Tonight's detail agent isn't Carter, and it bothers Sherlock to know anyone is a target. He feels calmer when he knows that everyone he cares about is safe. Only then does Sherlock feel he can breathe a bit. 

“Happy New Year!”

“Yeah, Happy New Year to you too, mate.”

The cheery greetings around Sherlock cause the curls at the back of his neck to itch. Ordinarily, a crime scene in a smelly alley would be wonderful way to usher in a New Year. However, this is Dr. Ian, an innocent man who was a target based on his association with Sherlock.

“Lestrade.” Sherlock nods curtly. 

Greg’s face says it all. “I'm sorry, Sherlock. I know he…”

Sherlock waves Greg’s sentimental mutterings aside. “Where’s the body?”

Greg glances to John who has caught up to Sherlock. “Over here. We were just waiting for you before we moved him.”

Sherlock hums and ducks under the yellow tape. 

Half of London’s finest wander about the crime scene, most likely contaminating any useful evidence.

“Lestrade, get these useless animals out of my way!” Sherlock barks.

“Everyone clear!” Greg orders. “Donovan, you stay. Everyone else out!”

 

With John on his heels, Sherlock approaches the trash bin. Lying on a bed of translucent garbage bags filled with discarded pastries, coffee grounds and paper cups is Dr. Ian’s body. The yellow bruising around his eyes is consistent with injuries roughly a week old. 

“He knew he was fighting for his life,” Sherlock says solemnly, as he points the fading marks on Ian’s right knuckles.

He feels a hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright to do this?” John asks.

Sherlock scowls. “John, don't you get it? This was for me. For us. He wants to show us what he's capable of.”

John steps away from him. “Okay, then let's get to business.”

Sherlock nods numbly and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he has detached from all emotion and he's ready to begin.

“Do you have your notebook, John?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He nods once. “Then do keep up.”

 

 

It was awful - the stench of rotting milk and baked goods. Dr. Ian’s eyes fixed to the sky as he lay like discarded garbage. Sherlock hadn't saved him. The countless hours of video, the visits to taxi companies - all of it. Wasted time.

“Are you ready?” John’s voice breaks into his thoughts. 

“Yes.” Sherlock dries his hands and plucks two latex gloves from the box. He turns to see Molly standing beside the body. Though they've left the stench and cold of the alley, the smell and chill lingers.

“You shouldn't be here,” Sherlock snaps.

Molly raises an eyebrow. “Why is that? I'm a better pathologist than…” Her eyes drift down. “Never mind. I was the one on call.”

Sherlock glances over to a nervous looking Howard. “You're certain her flat is secure?”

“I left Agent Richards there,” Howard says.

“Let's find the clue, Sherlock.” John snaps on a pair of gloves. He walks around the table. “Are we recording?”

Molly nods. “You can begin.”

Sherlock watches John move around the body and rattle off observations. No blunt trauma. No wounds that would cause death. Some bruising around the veins of the right arm where an IV had been inserted. Visible marks of extensive tape to keep the needle in place. Thus far, everything is consistent with the other victims. Bruising on the wrists and ankles suggests cloth restraints. 

Sherlock blinks before coming back to his senses. He circles the table looking for incisions in the sternum. His fingers probe the body's mouth and throat. He searches the nasal cavity. His stomach turns a little as they roll Ian on his side to search his anus. Nothing.

Sherlock peers closer to search Ian’s ears when he sees the stitching just under the hairline. Bile bubbles up in his throat as the room appears to tilt and the ground moves beneath his feet. Sherlock grips the edge of the stainless steel table. With his free hand, he ruffles his finger along the hairline to feel stitches from ear to ear.

“Oh God,” he gasps.

“What is it?” John is at his side.

“Look at the stitching here,” Sherlock says.

“Christ,” John mutters. “He placed the clue in his skull?”

“Molly, I need…” Sherlock begins as Molly hands him surgical scissors.

“I'll start on the other side,” she says.

Sherlock hates that this affects him so much, that he can't detach himself completely. He knows that it could be Molly, Mrs. Hudson or….Sherlock takes a deep breath. He cannot let his mind go to that place. This is what the murderer wants - to unnerve Sherlock and throw him off balance. He can't save Ian, Mike or Mary now, but he has plenty of people to keep safe.

The autopsy room is silent except for the sound of snipping scissors. Once every suture has been cut, Molly tugs gently on the scalp.

John's hand flies up to his mouth. “Where is his brain?” He whispers in horror.

Sherlock wipes his damp brow with his shirtsleeve. “Howard, I want a full check in. From everyone.”

“Yes sir.” His glance shoots over to Molly. “I'll be right outside.”

Sherlock searches the empty skull for any foreign objects. “The brain was removed post mortem. no sign of bleeding.” He takes a deep breath. “The skull was cut carefully with an electric saw. See the bone dust just here. Not much bleeding once the body has been drained.”

“This guy is nutters.” John shakes his head. 

“He does seem to be doing his best to see we have his attention.” Sherlock bites his lower lip. 

“Listen, Sherlock…” John says.

“Sir, this was just outside for you.” Howard holds a small white cooler marked ‘Organ Donor’.

Greg rushes over to Howard. “We need to have the bomb squad to check this out.”

“Inspector, he didn't go through all this trouble to blow me up.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I think we know exactly what's inside.”

“It could be attached to a bomb,” Greg says.

“Highly unlikely.” Sherlock takes the cooler from Howard to set it on the floor. “John?”

With a tight nod, John crouches beside Sherlock. “Let's see what he has to say.”

When Sherlock flips the cooler lid up, the room fills with plunking music box notes. He frowns as he listens to the melody. Inside the cooler rests Dr. Ian’s brain, perfectly intact on some papers.

“Oh Jesus, he's sick,” Molly gulps. “Don't you recognise the song?” She glances around the room. “It's Always on My Mind from Willie Nelson.”

“Oh, he's getting cheeky,” John says.

“It's sheet music.” Sherlock points to the pages under the brain.

Carefully, John lifts it out of the cooler. “It's cold.”

“Death was two days ago.” Sherlock fishes the sheet music from the bottom. “Of course. The lyrics.”

John purses his lips. “This is for you. He wants something from you.”

Sherlock hums in agreement. “Howard, did you see anyone in the hallway?”

“No. It was just through the double doors. I nearly tripped over it.” He looks to Greg and places his hand on his gun. “I'll search outside.”

“I want a full check in!” Sherlock snaps.

“I'm calling your brother now.” Greg leaves the room. 

Sherlock carefully examines the cooler. He's certain that no fingerprints were left, but most murderers slip eventually. Now that it is clear that he's the target of attention, if not warped affection, Sherlock begins a list in his head. If Moriarty had not blown his brains out of the back of his head, he would be suspect number one. Yet Jim never liked getting his own hands dirty, and this one enjoys his work. He's meticulous and creative. Sherlock wonders if he captures his victim and then devises how he will kill, drain and leave his mark on them. If the case hadn't been so personal, it would have fascinated Sherlock, but he almost doesn't care about the motive. He wants to choke the life out of the person threatening his family. 

“Sherlock.” John touches his arm.

His eyes pop open. Sherlock looks down at his clenched fists. “Let's finish up. We've a long night ahead.”

He's relieved when John steps back to give him some space. Gesturing to the body, Sherlock invites Molly to offer her analysis. He just needs a few moments to collect his thoughts. John watches him as he joins Molly in circling the body. 

Howard returns with Mycroft to report that all points are secure and extra agents have been called. It's not enough for Sherlock. The killer is watching and waiting for a mistake. Who could be next? 

 

Sherlock feels John moving around him cautiously, through the rest of the autopsy and during the ride home. While a small part of him is grateful for the silent support, Sherlock is ready to scream by the time pulls into the driveway. He slams the door harder than he should, but it's better than reeling on the man he loves desperately to rain a torrent of insults that he doesn't mean.

He tears into the study, tossing his coat over the back of the sofa. With his fingers steepled under his nose, he paces. The murderer has unequivocally made this about Sherlock, and will dispose of anyone remotely close to him. How close has he gotten to the manor? Has he tried? Who is next on the list?

“I'll hang this,” John offers. 

Sherlock’s eyes follow John as he moves to the hallway with his coat, then flick to the wall. Tomorrow, Ian’s autopsy photos and report will be tacked beneath his photo. Sherlock clasps his hands behind his back and squares his shoulders.

“What a way to see in the New Year,” John sighs. 

“John, I think it's time for you and Willa to move to a safe place,” Sherlock says brusquely.

John sinks into a chair. “Mycroft has dozens of people keeping us perfectly safe.”

“But when you go to work,” Sherlock says.

“I'm sure I'll have more than just one guard from now on.”

“I don't want you taking Willa out. Ian was taken during the day, and I can't risk it,” Sherlock paces.

“I agree,” John replies wearily.

“However, that's not a way for Willa to live, like a prisoner.” Sherlock bites his lip. “I think you both should move to the house up north. Or even further. For your safety.”

John sighs and closes his eyes. “No, Sherlock.”

“But…”

“I said no, Sherlock!” John barks. He's on his feet in a blink. “We're not doing this again, where you run off by yourself to solve the crime. It never works, does it?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond.

“No! It winds up with you committing suicide, or shooting someone and being sent away. It ends with me having pick up the pieces. No, we do this together at every step. You don't run off to play the hero. We discuss what actions to take, and then we do it together.” John point his finger at Sherlock's chest. “Is that clear?”

“John,” Sherlock attempts to protest.

“Is that clear? If I leave here with Willa, you'll never see us again. We work together or not at all.” John paces. “Do you think I could exist not knowing what you were doing, and wondering if you were being safe? Christ, Sherlock….have you learned nothing?”

Sherlock ducks his head like a scolded child. “I'm sorry, John. I only want for you and Willa to be safe.” His hand curls into a fist. “If anything…”

John's chest is still heaving from his rant. “As long as we work together. Separating us is exactly what he wants. Because whether you want to admit it or not, we are weaker without each other. Trust me, I hate to admit it, but there it is.”

Sherlock gnaws on the inside of his cheek. He's afraid that he's not as clever as he was. What if he can't keep them safe? 

John pats Sherlock's shoulder. “Now, let's get some sleep and start fresh in the morning.”

Sherlock remains rooted to the spot. His muscles are on fire from exhaustion and tension. 

John tugs gently. “Come on. Howard gave us a full check in before we got home. Everyone is safe tonight. Let's get some rest.”

Sherlock allows John to lead him upstairs. The simple act of pushing him to his room seems affectionate and strangely intimate. They pause on the second floor. 

“Do I have to walk you to your room?” John grins.

Sherlock manages a weak smile. “No. I can take it from here.”

Inside, he's screaming ‘come to my bed...just to be near.’ He looks down as his gnarled hand and remembers how much he's changed. John certainly wouldn't want to curl up beside a damaged body. 

“Good night, John.” Sherlock nods tightly and shuffles to his room. 

It's as he left it, piles of papers everywhere. Greta has made his bed. Sherlock pauses to think when was the last he actually slept in it. He strips off his jacket and kicks off his shoes. For a moment, he considers clicking on his laptop to work through what's left of the night. His eyes sting, and every muscle begs for a rest.

For a minute, he tells himself. He'll lie for a minute. He can visit his mind palace and think while his body rests. 

Instead, his mind turns to John. One word keeps rolling over and over. Together. John had said that word four times. They needed to be together, work together. Sherlock's eyes close. His mind palace opens but only reveals John’s room which has grown to the size of a ballroom since their first meeting. Sherlock has every impassioned speech John has delivered in the room. Every smile, glare and sigh is catalogued. Sherlock places tonight’s speech in the room as a keepsake for when John leaves. For now, he's here and his room is fresh with new data.

Finally, Sherlock drifts into a dreamless sleep.


	81. Chapter 81

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As expected, Sherlock's mood and temper take a drastic dip in the days following Ian’s autopsy. The air crackles with tense electricity in every room in the Holmes manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank you for your infinite patience in waiting for this chapter. I have been battling writer's block coupled with lack of time. It's a lethal combination. I hope hope hope that you enjoy this chapter. I got the blessing from my wonderful and creative editing team. I want to thank them for their time and also patience as I banged my head on desks, keyboards, shower walls, and steering wheels to get the words out. 
> 
> Thank you 221bjen, callie4180, Irene and Fruit bat!! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> @punkroxmum

As expected, Sherlock's mood and temper take a drastic dip in the days following Ian’s autopsy. The air crackles with tense electricity in every room in the Holmes manor. John had called in for two days as the prospect of leaving the house sent Sherlock into a tizzy. When he did finally go to the clinic, Sherlock had called him so often that John left the work two hours early.

 

Sherlock perches at the microscope, analysing the stitches used on Ian’s scalp. Most of the evidence leads nowhere. The only prints on the cooler had been from the orderly who had discovered it. Like with the other victims, no fingerprints, hair or skin had been left behind. The killer meticulously removes all trace of himself from the victim, and the foreign objects he places on them. John knows that a small part of Sherlock enjoys the chase. The genius loves to be challenged. But this case hits too close to home for Sherlock to be thrilled by it. 

 

Willa crawls on the floor, pulling herself up on John’s leg. She hands him a soggy biscuit before releasing his leg to stand, wobbly, for a few seconds. Looking extremely pleased, she plops on her bottom and crawls over to a pile of toys.

 

John switches his focus to the dwindling list of livery companies left to visit. Even the ones with less than impeccable records could not place one or two drivers at the sites where the victims had been discovered. The one good lead they have is evaporating quickly. Then, it's back to square one, to wait for another missing person report. 

 

John glances at the clock on the mantle of the dark fireplace. Half six. Another thirty minutes until Howard calls with his nightly report. Everyone safe and accounted for. Sherlock had insisted on knowing every six hours that everyone is safe.

 

Willa talks to a stuffed elephant, mostly nonsense. John understands a word here and there. He can’t believe how much she's grown in the last few weeks. Every day, she says a new word or discovers something new. Somehow in the Holmes vast manor, she has flourished. Her eyes light up when Sherlock walks into the room, more than they ever did for Mary. It should bother John that she doesn't mention her mother, but it doesn't. Deep down, John knows Mary would have never been the mother Willa deserves. 

 

Sherlock hisses. “Where is Howard?”

 

John looks at his watch. 7:30. The clock on the mantle is wrong. He pulls the phone from his pocket. No missed calls.

 

“He's usually punctual,” John murmurs mostly to himself.

 

Sherlock digs into the pocket of his jacket for his phone. His knee bounces rapidly as he taps angrily at the screen. He glares into space, gnawing on his bottom lip. 

 

Sherlock's rubber band mood grows more strained each day. John fears what will happen when it snaps.

 

“Howard,” Sherlock growls. “You are thirty one minutes late.”

 

John imagines that Howard wants to crawl inside himself. The day that poor meek Howard had been tasked with the duty of wellness checks, his pale face drained to a sickly yellow. Until now, he had been incredibly prompt and thorough. 

 

Sherlock listens intently and makes notes on a scrap of paper. The mad genius’s birthday is tomorrow and John had implored Greta to not make a fuss. No cakes. No cards. Sherlock was never a man for anniversary fanfare. John wasn't even sure that Sherlock even knew when his birthday was. Yet on March 31st one year, John received a card. Granted, it was a condolence card signed ‘you are one year closer to death, Sherlock’. From anyone else, John would have tore the card to bits, but from Sherlock, he laughed instead and stored it with his previous things.

 

Willa crawls over to the desk, and her little fingers grab the leg. With a frown of concentration, she pulls herself up. 

 

“Boo!” She says triumphantly.

 

Sherlock doesn't hear or see her. His glare is fixed on the Petri dish before him. 

 

“What do you mean you don't know where Angelo is? Where is his agent?” Sherlock shakes his head. “I would have thought my brother’s agents would have some competence!”

 

Willa looks up with concern. 

 

“You call me back with a full report. I want an update on Angelo and new update on everyone else. As of half five is not acceptable to me. Do you understand, Harold?” Sherlock rages.

 

John pumps his fist open and closed. He hasn't seen Sherlock this angry in a very long time. 

 

“I honestly do not care. Just get it done!” Sherlock shouts and tosses his phone against the wall. Surprisingly, it doesn't shatter but hits the wall and floor with a crack. That's not enough for Sherlock, though. With a swoop of his arm, he sends a stack of files and papers to the floor. Right beside Willa.

 

At first, she's too stunned to react. Her eyes widen with curiosity, then surprise. She flinches as the papers hit the floor just a few inches away. Fear flashes in her eyes, and her bottom lips quivers. The first wail is low and shaky. Then the tears flow followed by a bloodcurdling scream.

 

John doesn't have time to sweep her up because Sherlock gathers the girl as the first tear falls.

 

“Oh Willa, I'm so sorry, little one. I'm sorry I scared you.” Sherlock buries his face in her soft curls as he rubs her back. “I'm so sorry, love. Boo would never hurt you. Please forgive me.”

 

Willa tucks her head under Sherlock's chin and clutches his shirt. He rubs small circles on her back as the tears stain his white shirt. She sniffles and shudders, he holds her closer.

 

Watching Sherlock and Willa comfort each other causes the last wall around John to crumble. This is his family - imperfect and tattered but filled with so much love. He can't remember the reservations or why he's kept himself at a distance for this long. The pull in his chest feels like a powerful magnet. John stands and walks to them.

 

Sherlock’s eyes plead. “I'm sorry, John. I just want her safe…”

 

John nods silently as he approaches them, wrapped in their own world. This is where Sherlock belongs despite his temper, lack of tact and his propensity to leave. John's hand curls around the nape of Sherlock's neck. With a small smile, he reaches up and presses his lips to Sherlock's. God, they were softer than he had ever imagined, and he had given it quite a lot of thought.

 

Sherlock's lips part with a gasp of surprise. John moves closer and tilts his head for a deeper kiss. He feels all the muscles in Sherlock's neck and shoulders go rigid, but for a second his lips move against John’s. Willa watches silently, her hand still clutching Sherlock's shirt, John’s heart pounds against his rib cage. He's never kissed another man. He's thought about it every so often. Bill Murray. James Sholto. And Sherlock since the moment he met him. It feels like home, as if he's been adrift until this kiss. He wants to explore every part of Sherlock's mouth, neck, chest. The hunger he's locked away threatens to unleash at the first press of lips. 

 

His hand slides from the back of Sherlock’s neck to bump the skin on his scarred cheek. Sherlock freezes. His eyes pop open and he jerks away, staring at John with horror. 

 

John searches Sherlock's face for any clue of what's running through that tortured mind. His next words have to be perfect.

 

Sherlock hands Willa to John.

 

“Boo,” she sniffles but wraps her arms around John’s neck.

 

“Sherlock,” John starts, but Sherlock bolts from the room. 

 

Willa’s lower lip curls and a high pitched wail pierces John’s ear. He wants to run after Sherlock, but Willa needs him now. He shushes and rocks her. Her tears wet his shoulder, and her runny nose smears on his shirt. 

 

“Shhh. It's okay, Willa. Shh. It's okay. Daddy's here and Sher - Boo will be back. Come on, pumpkin. It's okay. It will be all right,” he soothes her gently, and tries to convince himself as well.

 

John knows he's going to have to bare his soul to Sherlock, to lay it all out. The longing, the expectations, every little emotion he's had. He'll have to tell Sherlock that he knows about David. No more secrets.

 

Willa eventually settles after some mushy pasta. She laughs as she squishes the pasta between her fingers. She  feeds John pasta with chubby fingers and claps with pride as her father eats the cold noodles. John acquiesces that this is dinner - apple sauce and cold, slimy pasta.

 

“Is Sherlock alright?” Greta asks while she clears Willa's plate.

 

“Yeah. A bit tired.” John hopes she can't see his cheeks pink. “I'll check on him after I get Willa down.”

 

He focuses on Willa rather than the uncertainty gnawing at him. Perhaps he had misinterpreted Sherlock's glances, his concern. Maybe Sherlock no longer felt the words he'd expressed in the letter. Perhaps those feelings had changed. 

 

John shakes those doubts from his head. It has to go deeper than being disinterested. Sherlock has been through so much in the last two years. Of course he's a damaged soul. John has to make him realise that he's not alone, he'll never be alone.

 

Willa yawns and rests her head on John's shoulder. Her eyes flutter, then close. Taking a deep breath, John savours the fresh powder smell of his daughter. He will miss these moments when she's running around as a little girl. He hums to her as he rocks his hips. Within a minute, her arm goes slack and a contented sigh brushes John's cheek. Carefully, he lays in her crib and covers her with a dark blue blanket covered in the constellations.

 

Outside, the wind howls against the house and rain dots the windows. A great night for a relationship talk, John sighs to himself. He moves into his bedroom and pauses in front of the mirror. Fiddling with his hair, he's only postponing the inevitable. For a moment, he considers sleeping on it. Everything looks better in the morning. What if Sherlock is finally getting some rest? 

 

John shakes his head at his image in the mirror. “You're being a coward. Just do it.”

  
  


With a deep breath, he rubs his hands together and makes his way to Sherlock's room. Every step that brings him closer only makes his heart pound harder. He swears he feels a twinge in his hip. Despite his roiling stomach, his hand is steady as he raises it to knock on the bedroom door. Two raps. John blows out the breath he's been holding since the staircase. He bends his head toward the door. Silence. Is it possible that Sherlock is asleep? John knocks louder and waits. Nothing.

 

Fear replaces anxiety as images of Sherlock sprawled on his bed with needle beside him flash in John's mind.

 

“Sherlock,” he calls urgently, then decides he doesn't care if he wakes the sleeping detective. 

 

John turns the knob and pushes the door open. A bedside lamp dimly lights the room. To his relief, Sherlock is not unconscious anywhere in the room. But a new fear sets in. Sherlock is nowhere in the room. His bed is still tidy with no sign of creases. The rest of the room is in disarray with files and papers covering every flat surface. 

 

“Right.” John purses his lips. “Where the bloody hell are you?”

  
  
  
  
  


*******

 

After a thorough search of the house and grounds, John begins to panic. His heart sinks as he dials Sherlock only to hear the phone rattle against the study’s floor. 

 

The security cameras had shown Sherlock stalking out of the house and through the front gate hours ago. John had not even noticed Sherlock pull his coat from the hook by the front door. Once Sherlock rounded the gate, he disappeared.

 

Howard sits in front of a battered laptop in the study. The video on the screen zooms by at double speed with Howard's eyes flicking left to right.

 

John paces in front of him. “And that will pick him up?”

 

Howard nods without tearing his eyes from the screen. “It uses facial recognition. I loaded a few photos of him at various angles.”

 

John pauses in front of the desk. “What about…” He motions to the right side of his face.

 

“I've made adjustments for that,” Howard says.

 

The house is relatively still with only Greta flitting about with offers of tea. John eyes the bar in the corner of the study with plans to pour a large glass of something once the git has been found. He swallows roughly.  _ If _ he is found. The killer has been watching everything they do somehow. He probably knows that Sherlock is loose on the streets of London without protection.

 

If anything happens to him- John paces again. He'll never forgive himself. He should have thought before just laying a kiss on Sherlock. Of course he’d have this reaction. Did John really think they would melt into each other's arms like a movie? This was them, and everything has to be messy, complicated and putting someone's life in danger.

 

John pulls his phone out. 

 

Nothing yet - Greg

 

Greg had taken off for old bolt holes while Mycroft didn't exactly say where he was heading. John suspects that Mycroft is seeking help from the Homeless Network - just in case. John decides that he will kill Sherlock with his own hands if Mycroft finds him in a drug den. In fact, he might wring that perfect neck regardless of where Sherlock is found.

 

John wants to be out on the streets looking for him, not pacing the study and turning down Greta’s tea. He glances at the clock on the mantle. Ten to twelve. John rubs his eyes. It's actually ten to one. Sherlock has potentially been out there for six hours, but they'll only been searching for four hours. If he doesn't want to be found, he won't. The sun will come up and everyone will still be looking. Hopefully daylight will turn up more clues.

 

“Do you want tea or coffee, Howard?” John asks, feeling absolutely useless.

 

“Tea would be great.”

 

John nods and heads to the kitchen where Greta bustles about wiping sparkling granite countertops. John suspects that the silverware will be next. At least she's doing something. John had been ordered to stay home with Willa. He hadn't agreed with Carter’s suggestion, but Mycroft and Greg apparently trusted him. Now all he can do is fetch tea for Howard and wear out the floors of the study.

 

As John fills the kettle with water, Greta flits over. “Please, allow me.”

 

“Thanks Greta, but I need to do something with my hands,” John replies.

 

She gives him a sad smile. “It will be fine. He's been so wound up lately and just needs to blow off some steam. He'll be back to you and Willa, you'll see.” 

 

“He just can't run off. It's not safe.” John leans against the sink and watches the rain dot the window. 

 

“Howard likes his tea with honey. I'm going to fetch some from the pantry.” She bustles out of the kitchen.

 

John places the kettle on the cooker. They had an electric one, but Greta felt it was cheating the tea and hid it somewhere in the pantry. A flicker of light from the window catches his attention. Mycroft’s agents have been searching the grounds for hours. A pair of flashlights disappear into the darkness. John is certain that their killer is aware that Sherlock is walking the streets unprotected. Hopefully Mycroft’s team finds him first.

 

John jumps when the kettle whistles. As he rushes to the cooker, his front pocket vibrates. Trembling fingers dig his phone out of his jeans.

 

“Carter, did you find him?” John asks exasperated.

 

“I have him with me now.”

 

John sighs. “Oh thank God. Where did you find him?”

 

Silence. “He called me.”

 

Jealousy creeps up around the edges of worry. “Oh.” The whistling pierces John’s ears. Without thinking, he reaches for the hot handle. “Shit…”

 

“Where are you?”

 

“I'm home, where I was instructed to stay,” John hisses. “ _ I _ wasn't out frolicking in the rain.”

 

“Who is home now?” 

 

Though it burns, John clenches his hand. “Just me...and Howard. Why?”

 

“We had a talk, and he's a bit rough at the moment.”

 

“He's  _ rough _ ?” John barks out a dry laugh.

 

“We're pulling in now.”

 

“Right now?” Silence. John looks down at his phone. 

 

_ Call ended. _

 

Shit, John grumbles. He won't have time to calm himself down before Sherlock walks through the door. Should he call Mycroft? He needs to clear Howard out.. He runs his fingers through his hair and attempts to appear calm when he return to the study.

 

“Tea is in the kitchen,” he lies. “I wasn't sure how you took it.”

 

“With a spoonful of honey.” Howard's eyes don't leave the screen.

 

John sits on the sofa. “Well, it's all there in the kitchen. Greta had several types of honey, so you might want to see for yourself.”

 

Howard’s brow creases into a frown. “Oh...okay. I need a break anyway. Ta, for the tea.” Slowly, he shuffles to the kitchen.

 

Rubbing his hands together, John paces the room while keeping one eye on the door. Turning his attention to the fire, he pokes at the wood. The flames jump to life as John tossed another piece of wood onto the embers. 

 

Behind him, the door opens. John twists around. Sherlock is first, with downcast eyes. The bottom of his trousers are soaked to the knee, and his curls are wet and limp.

 

Carter nods to John as he leads Sherlock to the chair in front of the fire. “Let's warm you up.” He looks up at John. “Do you have a towel?”

 

“Uh, sure.” John rushes to the closet in the hall. 

 

Sherlock hadn't even looked at him. Not even to acknowledge that he was in the room. The hairs on the back of John's neck bristle. True to Carter’s word, Sherlock looks a bit rough and very delicate. John attempts to quell his anger by thinking of all the trauma Sherlock has endured in the last year. With only Mycroft as his confidante, John is certain that Sherlock is starved for emotional support. 

 

Carter is crouched beside the chair and talking to Sherlock when John returns to the study. He can't make out what Carter is saying, but the tone is soothing. 

 

“Okay?” Carter asks.

 

Sherlock nods wearily.

 

“Here.” John thrusts the towel into Carter’s hands. Though he knows that Carter has a husband at home, John can't help feeling jealous of the relationship he has with Sherlock.

 

Gently, Carter rubs the towel over Sherlock’s head. John wonders what else the agent has seen and done for Sherlock. 

 

Carter's eyes flick to John. “I'm going to get home. I'll check in tomorrow.” He pats Sherlock’s shoulder lightly. “Can you stay put for the rest of the night?”

 

Sherlock nods.

 

“Right then. I'm off.” He pauses beside John. “Go easy on him. I know he’s a bit of an arse but try to be patient.”

 

“Thank you,” John replies. 

 

From the bar, he can only see Sherlock’s legs stretched toward the fire. When the front door closes, John realised that he's forgotten to ask Carter if Mycroft and Greg know that Sherlock is safe and more importantly, home. He doesn't have much time before Howard returns, or Mycroft returning to admonish Sherlock for his walk about. He pours two glasses of brandy. Alcohol will warm Sherlock’s insides and calm his own nerves. 

 

“Here.” John places the glass on the table beside Sherlock, who sits perfectly still. 

 

John steals a glance before moving to the fireplace. Sherlock stares blankly into the flames. He doesn't move to take a sip of his drink or remove the damp towel from his shoulders. His shaggy curls hang limply in his face. John will have to the first to speak. He searches his heart, his brain for the right words. He must be careful to not cause Sherlock to bolt again. Perhaps he can apologise and they can just forget the last few hours.chalk it up to stress.

 

“Listen Sherlock,” John begins.

 

“How is Willa?” he asks, wearily.

 

“She's fine.” John turns toward him. “Every parent snaps sometimes…”

 

Sherlock rubs his forehead vigorously. “I'm sorry, John.”

 

“It's me that should apologise…” he starts.

 

Sherlock's arms drop to either side of the chair. His glassy stare fixes on the dancing flames. He mutters so low that John can only make out ‘you’.

 

John inches closer. “What?”

 

Sherlock lifts his head to meet John's gaze. Overcome, he lets out a sigh. “I love you.”

 

John staggers back as though he's taken a blow to the gut. He never expected to hear that come from Sherlock's lips - tonight of all nights.

 

Sherlock’s head droops again. “I'm sorry, I just couldn't hold it in anymore. I didn't want to place this burden on you.”

 

John's heart pounds through his entire body. His chest, his ears, even his fingertips. Pulling himself from his shock, he knows he needs to respond. He sees Sherlock closing up, curling into himself.

 

Crouching in front of him, John places a shaky hand on Sherlock's knee.

 

“Burden? You are many things, but not that. Not to me.” 

 

Sherlock glances up. John's fingers reach up to curl around Sherlock’s neck. Slowly and deliberately, he presses his lips to Sherlock's. For a heartbeat, he stiffens under John's kiss. Gradually, Sherlock melts into John, parting his lips to invite John inside. Tongues touch tentatively, before exploring enthusiastically. John's fingers wind through damp curls. He's parched and Sherlock is an oasis in the desert and he doesn't want to stop until he's quenched, sated. John has lived several lifetimes waiting for a kiss like this. Not teenage fumbling or what he thought were passionate kisses for a wife have fulfilled a moment like this one kiss. He's uncomfortable, his back aching as he reaches up from his knees. It doesn't matter, because he could stay here all night as long as he can feel Sherlock's mouth on his.

 

Though John wants to touch Sherlock everywhere, he is careful to avoid the scars. It had set Sherlock off during their first kiss and John wants him to be comfortable. He wants him to stay.

 

It's Sherlock that pulls away. “Wait.” He says breathlessly. “John, I'm not..”

 

John takes Sherlock’s face in his hands and stares directly into those iridescent blue eyes. “Listen here. I love you too, and nothing can change that. Not your lies. Not your appearance. Nothing. We have a lot to talk about and deal with. Not tonight though. You need a warm shower and some sleep. And this,” he drops a soft kiss on pouty lips, “will still be here in the morning.”

 

John stands and takes Sherlock’s arm to pull him up. “Let's get you sorted before Mycroft comes home. I'm sure Carter waited a bit before calling him, but I'm certain he's on his way with a whole speech planned. Let's avoid it for a bit.”

 

Sherlock smiles weakly. “Yes, John.”

  
  



End file.
